


Deepest Shade

by varelsen



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lotor isn't a creepy predatory plot device tho i love him too much to do him dirty like that, M/M, Noir Aesthetic In Space, Porn With Plot, Switching, but lance has an affair with lotor that gets physical later on so please be aware of that, he has his own motivations and respect for boundaries, there isn't actually a lot of violence but i'm adding the tag to be safe, this fic is klance centric and i want to avoid cross-tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 127,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varelsen/pseuds/varelsen
Summary: Can you fuck someone you're convinced you hate? Lance Álvarez and Keith Kogane, rich sons of rival families, are about to realize that the answer is yes.Keeping rage and passion apart is difficult enough, but it's also only the beginning. As Lance gets swept up in a decadent affair with a mysterious man, and Keith struggles with ghosts from his shadowy past, the galaxy holds its breath for the storm encroaching on the horizon.And through it all, somehow, they keep gravitating back to each other.





	1. Scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance goes to a party, plays the piano, and wakes up in an unexpected place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! welcome to my latest Foolish Venture. this is going to be nsfw more or less straight through. if you're into that, just skip the rest of this note; you know what you came for *wink wonk*
> 
> if you are underage or just not comfortable with sexual/adult themes, consider yourself duly warned and free to relocate to a space that is safer for you! (i'd suggest [my fluffy oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9095971), rated T, or [this really cute video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWhmeUXE_o0) of a dog hugging her owner.)
> 
> also, there are alcohol references throughout the whole first chapter. if you'd rather skip over the part that contains actual drinking: when you get to the part that starts with "After-party," scroll down to the next horizontal line to avoid it. feel free to lmk if there's anything else you think i should warn for and i will!
> 
> and ofc these characters aren't mine, i'm just making them smooch for my own gratification. please have fun with this filth!!!

“This party sucks.”

Lance reaches for another flute of not-quite-champagne, tipping the sweet alien liquid past his lips. He knows this isn’t the time to get drunk – that comes later – but he’s bored, and thirsty for the buzz.

“No, it doesn’t,” says Hunk, beside him. “And you always say that.” His best friend is sampling the large platter of hors-d’oeuvres sitting next to Lance’s pseudo-alcohol, too used to Lance’s whining to bother indulging him.

Lance sighs, sets the empty glass back down, and straightens a non-existent crease in his crisp, dark suit. This is the halfway point, where he starts to feel antsy in his fancy clothes – after the thrill of entering a new, opulent venue has faded, but before the sweet release of the after-party. Lance hates this part.

“Why don’t you talk to people?” Hunk suggests, like he always does. He’s taken off his suit jacket and draped it over his arm, his wide body and broad shoulders sheathed in a white, collared shirt and paisley vest.

“About what? Business? Yawn.”

Lance can hear the forced small talk already – _so how is the new operation coming? You’ve had dealings with Altea for a long time, no?_ Lance’s reputation isn’t exactly suitable for polite conversation, and although that’s a fact he’s proud of, it does mean that strangers tend to opt for the safer – and duller – topic of his family's company.

“It’s easier for you,” he adds, giving Hunk a pointed look. The son of an actress and an artist, and a successful vidder himself, Hunk is the kind of person who makes people’s eyes light up just from talking to him. He’s just so damn _interesting_.

Hunk just shrugs, though. “Dude, whatever. These things are _sweet_.” He picks up what looks like a cracker covered in translucent green beads, presumably edible. “I _need_ to talk to the chef.”

“Go for it. I’m gonna go people-watch for a while,” Lance says, because he’s cranky, and it’s only so long before Hunk’s persistent optimism will start getting on his nerves. “See you in ten.”

“Sure thing, man.”

Lance plucks yet another glass off the platter, and starts making his way around the room. It’s _huge_ – high, domed ceiling; rows and rows of buffet tables; the din of countless conversations echoing off distant walls. This is the first time Lance has actually been on Altea, instead of just an affiliated space station, and he admits it – he’s impressed. Their hosts have really spared no expense.

The faces of the guests, both humanoid and bizarrely alien, are bathed in the soft, otherworldly glow of crystal chandeliers. Every single bowl and plate on these tables is ornately wrought, and probably worth a small fortune. It’s splendid, and manages to find that balance right on the cusp between classy and ostentatious. As expected of Alteans, known for their natural sense of poise. Perhaps that charisma is what has made them intergalactic diplomats, bringing together aliens from far-flung worlds in seemingly impossible alliances.

One thing’s for sure, though: everyone agrees that an Altean social event is reason enough to get along.

 _I wish I could see the planet, too,_ Lance hears himself think. _Not just the inside of this room._

Gorgeous as it is, it’s still only a reception room, similar to the countless others he’s visited throughout his life. Lance caught a glimpse of the gleaming turquoise jewel that is Altea from the shuttle, but that was about it. He feels a familiar twinge in his stomach – an ache to go beyond this, to leave the beaten path for something wild and new.

Lance drains his glass, snuffing out the feeling. Honestly, whatever this beverage is, it’s affecting him more like coffee than anything else. If he isn’t careful, he’ll start to get the shakes.

He skims the crowd with expert eyes. The majority consists of alien species he could probably name if he tried, but right now, they seem to melt into an amorphous mass of strange, inhuman features. A mermaid representative is being wheeled around in a water-filled tank; Lance gives his long, shimmering tail an appreciative glance. There are plenty of tall, beautiful Alteans, of course, and lots of humans too. Their mostly dark suits are easy to spot, contrasting against more colorful alien garb. However, a few women have – to Lance’s delight – opted for clingy cocktail dresses.

Finally, he finds what he’s looking for – a gaggle of vibrant fabrics and ornate hairstyles.

Lance strides over to the group of girls. He’s taller than most of them, except for one exceptionally broad-shouldered human woman in an emerald dress.

He is normally not the kind of dick who butts in on random people’s conversations, but he knows this scene well. Pretentious small talk easily goes stale, so new blood showing up for introductions tends to be more than welcome.

“Hi,” he says, with his most winning lopsided smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

He sees the expression on some of their faces that means they already know who he is, but some of them still look unimpressed. “I’m Lance,” he grins, “Álvarez” – and he watches the ball drop in real time, as the name works its magic, and they realize he’s money, that he means something. “And that is an _amazing_ dress,” he adds, winking at the tall woman, who puts a manicured hand to her chest and exclaims, “Thank you!”

Her voice has a deep, attractive timber, and she has long eyelashes, a high Roman nose. He lets his eyes linger on hers for a split-second longer, then starts dishing out compliments to the rest of the girls, who laugh and cluster around him. His chest starts to swell with pleasure at the attention – regardless of whether they’re actually attracted to him, there aren’t many people who can resist Lance’s charm. He thrives off it, flirts for flirting’s sake, makes sure everyone is having fun. And once he’s figured out who’s into him, then yeah, maybe he’ll take it a step further. Lance is a playboy. Not an asshole.

He’s in the middle of telling this hilariously embellished story about a fire alarm and an Arusian spy, when he suddenly hears a sharp intake of breath from one of the girls.

“Mr. Álva— _Lance_ ,” she corrects herself, blushing at his insistence that they call him by his given name. “Do you … um … by any chance know _him_?”

He follows her gaze across the room, and feels his newly raised spirits sinking like a rock to the bottom of a lake.

Of _course_ he’s here.

Fucking mullet.

Keith Kogane looks somber as always, like he’s attending fun’s funeral, in a suit the same jet-black as his hair. The tailored jacket hugs his slim figure, dipping in at the waist; his ridiculous overgrown bangs are escaping from their gelled-back prison, falling over his furrowed brow.

 _What is he, constipated?_ Lance’s hard-won good mood evaporates in an instant.

Of course, on the surface, Keith is beautiful. He’s got the heart-shaped face, the soulful eyes, the slender, balanced body. It’s pointless to deny it – the starry look in the girls’ eyes is proof enough – but it still pisses Lance the hell off.

At Keith’s heels, Takashi Shirogane follows like a faithful shadow – back ramrod straight, shoulders ridiculously wide, his bulk obvious even under his clothes. He’s wearing snow-white gloves, to cover that fucking Galra hand everyone already knows he’s sporting. It’s been an open secret more or less from the start, and Lance feels his heart throb at the unfairness of it all. A hero like Shiro deserves better than shady, borderline-legal tech. Deserves better than tailing after _Keith_.

“I know of him,” Lance says, in reply to the girl, and even he can hear his tone fall flat. _Ugh, unattractive!_ “But we’re not close.”

Understatement. But it doesn’t really encourage any follow-up questions, so the girl trails off, looking at a loss.

“So anyway,” Lance says brightly, trying to steer this careening ship of a conversation back on course, “have any of you been to Altea before? Because I’ve heard rumors of _amazing_ underground clubs here and …”

Things continue in that vein for a little while, and Lance keeps trying to catch the tall beauty’s eye, but – fuck – she seems to be losing interest. Keith fucking Kogane is like a bad omen, a dark-winged crow swooping in and throwing Lance’s entire life into shambles. Somehow, this is probably his fault.

Lance’s stomach turns sour. He _really_ needs a drink.

He is saved from complete social mortification when the hostess herself, Princess Allura in person, steps up on a podium at the front of the room to make a speech. She’s an absolute bombshell – dark skin, long silver hair, even more beautiful in real life than on a holoscreen. Lance has spoken to her twice. He completely lost his cool both times, but hell, it was so worth it.

After resounding applause, she yields the stage to her adviser, a mustachioed fellow named Coran whose puns actually have Lance _wheezing_ – shit, the dude is hilarious, okay? Both of the speeches are full of the typical Altean “diplomacy and peace and space kittens and space rainbows” type shtick, but he listens politely until the end. What _is_ it with Alteans and their sparkling, hopeful eyes that can lift a whole room like that? It even has Lance feeling better, although he attributes that mostly to the puns.

He casts his eyes around for Hunk, only to find him engaged in serious conversation with a bug-eyed, feline-faced alien. Hunk’s eyes are bright, his body language animated, so he must be talking about some social issue he’s passionate about. Joining them is out, then. Lance can afford a lot of things, but getting political isn’t one of them. Things are different for Hunk – he’s more of an artist than a future businessman. He’s allowed to be radical, unlike Lance.

 _Are you not allowed,_ says a snide voice in Lance’s head, _or are you just too afraid?_ He shoos it away, can _not_ be assed to deal with this crap today.

Lance wanders off again, going exploring for real this time. He peeks into the kitchens, listens in on some very boring intergalactic gossip, and finds out that if you stare at the high ceiling for too long, the din and the light and the strange mosaics will have your head spinning.

Eventually, he discovers a little corridor off the main hall that seems to be open to visitors. He darts down it, for a break from the buzz of other people’s conversation; the faint citrusy smell that seems to be characteristic of Altea hangs in the air here, too.

It seems he’s found the break rooms – small hideouts, nestled away from everything else, where people can recline on plush couches and chat in peace.

He peeks into the room on his left, and _… wait, for real?_

No doubt about it – what he is looking at is definitely a piano.

 _What are the odds?_ Lance thinks, as he feels his heart thrum with anticipation. Although, he supposes, it makes sense considering the friendly relationship between Earth and Altea. Maybe the instrument was a gift.

It wouldn’t be standing here, uncovered, if no one was meant to play it. Right?

An alien couple are already in the room, talking in soft, chirping voices under the dim golden light. Lance excuses himself, gestures at the piano, universal code for _would you mind?_ They shake their heads, interest gleaming in their round, shiny eyes.

His fingers are already stretching, his hands warming themselves up, itching with movements remembered in muscle and sinew.

Lance pulls out the stool, dusts off his butt for good measure, and sits.

He opens the lid. Inhales.

The first few notes are tentative, tremulous, as he plays some simple scales, getting his fingers used to these keys. His foot finds the pedal, stretching the music out into strands of trembling honey.

The adorable aliens – their bodies are covered in soft, pale fur – are watching with wide eyes. Lance shoots them a kind, genuine smile, and starts to play a soft rendition of _Autumn Leaves_. A pleasant warmth spreads through his chest as they start to slow dance, cradled in each other’s small, fuzzy arms. It might be the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

They rustle the long whiskers around their mouths appreciatively once he’s done – it must be their equivalent of applause – and he ducks his head in thanks as they leave the room together, hand in hand.

He doesn’t feel quite finished yet, though.

He falls naturally into the rhythm of his favorite pieces, letting cuts of concertos and snippets of symphonies blend together into an unbroken tapestry of music. It’s not long before his fingers start to fly, ghosting over the keys spider-quick and swallow-graceful. He feels the music fill his chest, the spaces behind his eyes; it trembles on his tongue like words he dreams of speaking, but never will.

He covers the gaps with improvisation, almost on instinct: his hands, rather than his mind, crafting smooth transitions, carrying him through. Lance’s eyes fall shut, and he allows himself to float away on a tide of his own making.

One of his most beloved pieces of all time – Debussy’s _La cathédrale engloutie_ – is flowing from under his fingers, when a tickle at the back of his neck makes him slit his eyes back open.

A shadow in his peripheral vision. He’s not alone.

Another audience.

Lance leans into the music a little harder, puts his heart deeper into it. And glances to the side. And—

—it’s a wonder he doesn’t come to a jarring halt, but the muscle memory is strong, taking over when his mind freezes up in outrage upon seeing _Keith_.

_Ugh._

As he plays the end of the piece, he makes up his mind to just ignore him. He launches directly into _Reflets dans l’eau_ , to avoid conversation. He straightens his back and shoulders, tucks his chin in – the model pianist, who couldn’t care less that he’s being watched.

He reaches the climax of the piece, where he can throw his whole body into it, feel his heart reverberating with it, an echo chamber for the music streaming from his hands. He plays as intensely as he can, to drown out the merest hint of Keith’s presence – reduces him to just a dark flicker in the corner of his eye.

Why is he just standing there? Fucking creep. Lance wants to make him go away without having to talk to him, so he focuses as hard as he can on the piano, hoping Keith will get bored. Before the beautiful ripples of Debussy can fade into silence, Lance begins to improvise something of his own, soft and soothing and filled with whispers of _go away, Kogane, just go_.

Predictably, Keith does not leave, and Lance finishes up his improv with a firm and final bang on the keys.

Lance slips out of perfect form, whips his head around to fix Keith with a cool stare.

“What?” he says, with a little toss of the head that would probably have worked better if his hair wasn’t gelled stiffly back. “You like what you see?”

Keith hesitates. “I didn’t know you played piano.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“You’re good.”

“I know.”

Lance stares at Keith for a few moments, defiant. And shit, shit, shit – he can’t deny he’s gorgeous, skin so pale against his dark suit, violet eyes big and velvety. What a fucking waste.

“So – why are you stalking me?” Lance asks, standing up and resting one hand on a cocked hip. Keith’s brow furrows. He looks constipated again, Lance notes, and takes comfort in that fact. It helps take the edge off Keith’s completely unfair attractiveness.

“Just stepped out for some air.”

“Okay. Any reason you’re polluting mine?”

“Heard you playing.” Keith shrugs. He’s slender, but his shoulders are still wide compared to his waist – perfectly proportioned. “Like I said, you’re good.”

Their eyes meet, and they stare at each other for several long heartbeats. Is Lance imagining that crackling in the air? He must be. But he has a sudden flash of Keith’s composure crumbling, of fucking his tongue past those pretty lips. It has his stomach surging.

He forces himself to ignore it.

“And like _I_ said, I know. Now, since you’re not going to leave, I guess I will.”

He stalks out of the room, deliberately knocking Keith’s shoulder with his own as he leaves. He does it just to be a dick, but god – Keith’s body is so warm. Lance feels it even through their clothes.

He swallows, but keeps his head held high. 

 

* * *

 

They have so many reasons to hate each other, honestly.

Kogane and Álvarez. Old money and new.

There’s always been tension. Since way before their time.

Lance, with a child’s intuition, sensed the disdain in his parents’ voices whenever the Koganes came up. He decided he disliked them on principle – but still, one day, he’d asked his sister to explain the _why_ of the matter.

“Well. They’re basically mafia,” she said, as if that cleared everything up. Although he hadn’t understood the full ramifications of her words, it was good enough for him. Clearly, the Kogane clan were shady and dishonest – not clean-cut and hard-working entrepreneurs like the Álvarez family. Lance took pride in this sense of superiority, and felt in his bones that it was true. That feeling has never left him.

And then there’s Keith.

He remembers the day, nearly ten years ago, when his father told his mother over dinner that Madame Kogane had taken in some ragamuffin and was calling him her son. Rumor had it she had plucked him directly off the streets.

Lance didn’t actually _see_ him until high school, a year later. Dark as a stroke of ink in his crisp uniform. Collected, composed, and smug. Scouted by sports teams. Fawned over by boys and girls alike. Rejected everyone, like he was too fucking good for them.

Like he hadn’t been nothing until just a few years ago. And then assumed his place in high society like _that_ was nothing.

Lance wondered if Keith Kogane, with those cold and haughty eyes, ever cried himself to sleep at night. If he ever clawed at his own ribs and arms like it would help him uncover a reason why he wasn’t good enough.

He hated Keith on sight.

That feeling never left him, either.

 

* * *

 

After-party. Finally.

This is what he’s been waiting for. Now that the formal bash is out of the way, it’s time to let his hair down. Undo the top button. Drink some _real_ alcohol.

Everyone attending the after-party relocates to the luxury hotel where most of the guests are staying. This gives Lance time to shower and change into something more casual – dark grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair just barely tousled with gel. Lance winks at himself in the mirror. His skin is glowing, and the color of the shirt brings out the blue of his eyes. He looks _good_.

Lance and Hunk push into the crowded bar, lit in dim purple, the counters and tables and booths all sharing a smoothly curved, distinctly Altean design. There’s a low thrum of music in the air, from invisible speakers, futuristic and sultry. He’s heard rumors of a live band later, downstairs, and maybe even some dancing. He might check it out. He is hoping it’s the kind of dancing where clothes get taken off – Alteans of all genders are known to be gorgeous.

But first things first. They aim for the bar.

While Hunk samples extravagant cocktails, chatting with the bartender about special ingredients and the secret menu, Lance just knocks back shots. He’s had a long damn day, and he deserves this.

Princess Allura makes a brief appearance, and Lance, bold with tipsiness, greets her like an old friend. He gets a hug and a peck on each cheek, before she moves on to whatever ethereal plane she actually belongs on. Score.

The hours roll by. Lance is pretty hammered by the time Hunk decides to leave, but he guesses his friend trusts him to at least be able to make it from the bar to the elevator in the lobby and back to his room.

“Don’t overdo it, dude,” Hunk says, and Lance waves a blasé hand at him.

“Who, meeee?”

Hunk sighs, squeezing Lance’s shoulder. “Really, don’t. And call me if you need me.”

“Will do, Hunky boy.”

And there he goes. Healthy, wholesome Hunk. Lance loves him. Sometimes Lance wishes he could be him.

But tonight Lance wants to act like the party boy most of intergalactic society is already convinced he is. He’s in an Altean bar, damn it. He’s allowed to have fun.

And he does. He gets swept up into a group, does more shots with them, laughs and flirts and whoops. He gets dared to kiss someone, which he does, gladly – for the attention, for the cheers that get louder for each extra second lips are pressed to lips, erupting when Lance darts his tongue out to swipe along the seam of the other person’s mouth. He jokes and he dances and he loses himself in mindless fun.

At some point, his brain processes Keith and Shiro, standing by the bar, ordering. Guess even a stick-in-the-mud prude like Kogane wants to let loose a little, huh?

And Keith and Shiro end up at his table. So, it’s a big table, who cares. He ignores them, keeps chatting with the cute girl on his right, when out of the corner of his eye he sees Keith down his entire glass of booze in one fell swoop.

“Nice one, Kogane,” Lance hears himself crow. “Guess somebody’s grown outta juice boxes.” What is he even saying? This is such total drunk talk, but everyone else is drunk, too, so a couple of people laugh, and Keith scowls.

Eyes are on Lance now. The way he likes it. “Hey. Bet I could drink you under the damn table.”

“You’re already sloshed,” Keith objects, but it’s drowned out by the sound of several voices cheering.

“What, you scared?” Lance taunts – and Keith, eyes getting a little bit hazy with alcohol, spits back, “You’re on.”

“Who’ll do us the honors?” Lance asks loudly, and before he knows it there’s a rack of dark purple shots being pushed onto the table.

He meets Keith’s eyes, smirking. Keith glares back.

Tightass.

It. Is. On.

This Altean booze is strong as hell, and tastes like spice and cough syrup. It’s awesome. Lance downs a shot, and Keith downs a shot, and he swears they’re sneering-glaring-smirking across the table at each other the whole damn time.

Finally, Lance pretends to sway a bit, puts fingers to his forehead for dramatic effect – he actually hears someone gasp, bless their heart – then pauses, before straightening up and confidently pocketing shot number four, to unanimous acclaim.

The game ends at six shots, when someone decides that the responsible thing to do is refuse to keep serving them – only on Altea, Lance thinks grimly. No other planet is this concerned about his liver.

Then the alcohol hits him all at once – those six shots combined with everything he drank before. His head’s spinning and his fingers are numb, and he’s not sure he could stand if he tried, and he thinks, weakly, _Fuck, I’m so drunk._

He slumps over the table, miraculously not puking his guts up then and there. Must be the alien booze. Angelic properties. For sure.

“Hey. Lance?” A hand shaking his shoulder. He makes a humming sound of acknowledgment. “You’re shitfaced. You should leave.”

But the table feels so soft right now. This room is dark and warm and cozy, thumping music be damned. He wouldn’t mind just going to sleep here.

He whines as he feels himself being hauled, his arm slung around a pair of firm shoulders. Drunk Lance is nothing if not cooperative, though, so he lets himself be led out of the bar, into the golden glow of the lobby, then a kaleidoscope of lights and mirrors that he presumes is the elevator.

Lance is aware that he’s babbling, but he isn’t sure about what. There’s the bleep of a keycard, shoes being pried off his feet. Then his face hits a soft surface, and the next thing he knows, he’s fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

Lance comes to considerably more sober, and blessedly headache-free. Gotta love these alien brews – truly the mark of an advanced civilization.

He blinks, stretches. He’s lying on an unfamiliar couch. The light of a holoscreen flickers through the room. Someone’s watching it, from an adjacent sofa.

Solemn violet eyes. Slim figure. Dark, longish hair.

No, wait – he knows a mullet when he sees one.

He’s in _Keith’s_ suite?

“Well,” Lance tries to say, and it comes out as a dry croak. Ugh. He needs a glass of water, or eight. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Keith’s eyes move to Lance, then back to the screen. Annoyance rears its head in him. _Hello to you too._

He sits up, steadying himself against the armrest. He feels all right – his body’s still the slightest bit sluggish, and his mouth is cottony, but his head is clear. Lance slings his arm over the back of the couch, crosses his legs over one another, and arches an eyebrow at Keith – who will _not_ be ignoring Lance’s presence any longer, thank you very much.

“Nice place you got here.” No response. Asshat. “So, did you take advantage of me while I was drunk?”

“That’s not funny,” Keith mumbles, still staring at the pretentious-looking Altean film on the screen. “And no.”

“Good,” says Lance, and means it. Honestly – if he’s going to be taken advantage of by someone who looks like Keith, he wants to be awake to remember every second.

Lance looks around the room. It’s very similar to his own suite, spacious and sleek, but with a different, darker color scheme, edgier décor.

He’s got a lot of questions, but the main thing on his mind right now is hygiene. He feels like a rumpled mess, and probably smells like one, too. “Well, since you’ve been so kind as to invite me, I’m going to use your shower.”

Predictably, Keith doesn’t say anything. Lance stands up, straightens his wrinkled shirt, and then—

—dark eyes on him. Just for a second, but definitely there.

“Hmmm,” Lance hums, tone dripping with glee. “Were you just checking out my ass?”

Keith’s gaze darts back to the screen. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You _were_.” He feels this ridiculous surge of pride – not even Keith is immune to Lance’s bubble-butt.

“Don’t you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”

“Not really. Are you tired of staring at my ass yet?”

Keith narrows his eyes, without deigning to reply. Irritation pricks at Lance’s gut. Why is this guy so fucking holier-than-thou? Especially when he _was_ looking at Lance’s ass. It’s a nice ass, too; there’s no shame in it.

Lance pads through the living room, past the queen-size bed, and into the spacious ensuite bathroom. He’s pleased to note that Keith’s suite is neither more nor less fancy than his own, with all the same amenities – hot tub, shower, wide marble sink.

He finds a toothpaste pill in the bathroom drawer, chews it for that minty freshness, and asks the bathroom AI what time it is. It translates into relative Earth hours, for his benefit – four-thirty in the morning. Huh. Altean days are longer, so it’s not four-thirty _exactly_ , but normally he’d still be at the bar by now. That drink-off he had with Keith must have really gotten to him.

Lance sheds his clothes and jumps under the hot spray, rinsing off the film of sweat and grime and coming out feeling refreshed and angelic. He towels off his hair and body, and gets back into his boxers and pants – gross, but what’s he supposed to do? His shirt kind of reeks, though, so he scrunches it up into a little ball and tucks it under his arm, and goes back into the living room.

Keith has stood up, and he’s still wearing the same dark suit he’s had on all day, sans the jacket. Somehow, he doesn’t look disheveled at all. Unfair.

“So,” says Lance, tossing his shirt-bundle onto the couch and crossing his arms over his bare chest. “How’d I end up here?”

Keith’s eyes flicker to Lance, taking in his shirtlessness, and – oh. His throat bobs in a swallow. Interesting. “You were smashed.”

“Oookay. So you dragged me up here and let me pass out on your couch?”

“More or less.”

Lance cocks an eyebrow. “Why’d you bring me to your room, instead of just having staff take me back to mine?”

Keith doesn’t blush, but he does have the decency to look embarrassed. “As _you_ should know, drunk people can make stupid decisions.”

“Stupid? Or honest?” Lance puts his hands on his hips, exposing his chest in full – and yeah, Keith is definitely looking. “Guess you wanted me splayed out and unconscious. You dirty boy.”

A vein in Keith’s neck twitches. Good.

“I’m surprised you’re not living with Shiro.” Why is Lance still talking? He knows he should shut the hell up and leave, but he’s always been terrible at listening to his own common sense. “Usually you’re always together.”

“Well,” says Keith, voice tight with irritation, “now we’re not.”

“I was sure you two were fucking,” Lance smirks. “I wonder what he does to you with that Galra hand when you’re alo—”

And all at once, Keith’s forearm slams into Lance’s chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs and pinning him against the wall. Keith’s eyes flash with anger – he looks wolfish, feral, and for a moment, Lance feels a twinge of real fear.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Keith hisses.

“Jesus,” Lance wheezes, trying to catch his breath around the pressure on his ribs. The wall is cold against his naked back. Keith’s arm, even through the sleeve of his shirt, is very hot. Their eyes lock on each other – Keith’s narrowed to slits, Lance’s deer-in-the-headlights wide – and Lance’s breath gets stuck in his throat. “Sensitive subject?”

“I said, _shut the fuck up_ ,” Keith snarls. Livid. There’s a dark energy coming off of him in waves that are almost palpable, sending shivers skittering over Lance’s skin. “I should fucking kill you for that.”

“I think that’s a bad idea,” Lance gasps, hyper-aware of Keith in his space, thrumming with tension and anger and—

—shit—

—they’ve frozen in this position, and it seems like they’re both processing it, the intimacy of it, faces so close they can taste each other’s breathing, feel each other’s heat.

 _I hate him,_ Lance thinks, because damn – this is turning him on.

And he has hooked up with enough people in his life to know that when Keith’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, it’s not because of guilt.

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, watches the telltale bob of Keith’s Adam’s apple.

“So maybe I’m imagining things,” Lance says, his voice a little drier with hopeless arousal than he would have liked. “But, uh, despite the death threats and the attitude and all – I’d say you’re pretty into me right now.”

The slightest flush works its way into Keith’s cheeks, and his mouth – his pretty, pretty mouth – falls open, to object.

But before he can say anything, Lance, riding an adrenaline high, blurts, “Wanna fuck?”

There’s a nonplussed look in Keith’s eyes as he blinks – once, twice, processing.

Part of Lance can’t believe he said it either. Part of Lance is completely outraged, actually – _are you still drunk, you asshole? He’s awful, remember?_

But most of Lance is focused on pale skin and strong arms and fiery eyes. And it’s that part of Lance that grabs Keith’s collar and pulls him in for a kiss.

And oh—

— _oh fuck_ —

Keith’s hesitation must have evaporated the second he felt the hunger in Lance’s grip, because as Lance crushes their mouths together – and Keith’s is hot, so hot – Keith’s lips open under his, immediately admitting Lance’s questing tongue. The arm trapping Lance’s chest falls, wraps around his waist instead – it pulls him close, cinches him in, so that their bodies are pressed flush against one another.

It’s _good_.

Lance shoves his thigh between Keith’s legs, putting pressure on his crotch. It makes Keith hiss, and Lance nudges his thigh against the hardness underneath with smug delight. The buttons on Keith’s shirt press angry rounds into Lance’s bare chest, and his tongue forces its way into Lance’s mouth, insolent, demanding. His skin smells amazing – of course it fucking does – a sweet, dark spice, all late nights and rainy summers.

They break apart, for a brief moment, breath coming in shallow gasps. Lance meets Keith’s gaze – not angry now, just full of scorching heat – and breathes, “So, is that a yes?”

And Keith just _snarls_ , dives back in to capture Lance’s lips in open-mouthed kisses, and Lance winds his arms around Keith’s neck, pulling him in closer, closer, every inch of their torsos touching. He fists his fingers in Keith’s long black hair – curses to himself as he realizes it’s _soft_ , softer than silk – and kisses like he’s fighting to win, like Keith’s lips are the last thing standing between him and certain victory.

Lance is taller by perhaps an inch – it’s not much, but enough to take advantage of as he yanks at the hair at the back of Keith’s neck, forcing his head to tip back as Lance claims his lips in more searing kisses. Keith eats it up, pushes back with every fiber of his being. He’s hooked his fingers in Lance’s belt loops, and all of a sudden he _tugs_ , bringing their lower bodies together in a delicious collision, and Lance _aches_ through layers of clothing that suddenly seem horribly excessive.

He brings his hands to the front of Keith’s shirt, starts undoing the first of so many ridiculous buttons. It’s not threading a needle, exactly, but requires more precision than what they’ve been doing so far. So after a few more messy kisses, Lance breaks away, to focus on getting him out of the offending garment.

As their eyes open, he catches Keith looking at him. They’re so intense, those eyes – it makes him shudder, right where he stands, and Keith sucks in a breath that sounds almost _surprised_.

“Don’t think for a second this means I don’t hate you,” Lance says, and he means for it to come out full of aloof confidence, not breathy and … and _thirsty_ , like it does.

“Likewise,” says Keith, low, low in his throat – his throat that now tapers into an unbroken line of exposed, pale flesh, where Lance has spread his shirt open.

Lance wants to taste it. Every inch.

He grabs Keith’s hand.

And he swears they’re almost running, stumbling over each other in their haste to get to the bed. The deep red sheets have been meticulously made, the pillows fluffed by hotel staff who, Lance thinks, must have the best pillow-fluffing skills in the entire universe. The bed is wide and beckoning and absolutely perfect.

And he’s going to fuck Keith Kogane on it.

Which reminds him. They haven’t talked about that, uh, arrangement. Considering the way Keith grabbed Lance’s waist – hell, _threatened_ _him_ against the damn _wall_ – he might be, you know, getting ideas about who’s in charge here.

Because, see, Lance knows he’s a little bitch. But Keith Kogane’s bitch? He doesn’t think so.

“By the way,” Lance says, around a last sloppy kiss, before they break apart to get properly undressed. Keith raises an eyebrow, sits down on the edge of the bed as he kicks his black suit pants into a puddle on the floor. _Shit, those legs._

“What?”

“ _I’ll_ be the one fucking _you_ , or the deal’s off,” Lance boasts, as he unbuttons his pants and steps out of them – feigning machismo, because he is _not_ ready to deal with the fact that his cock twitches at the thought of Keith holding him down.

Keith’s eyes gleam with dark amusement. “Oh, will you now.” His gaze catches on the tent in Lance’s boxers, and there’s a different look on his face, suddenly. A look that says he might be into what Lance is packing.

“Yup. Don’t act like you don’t want it,” Lance purrs – and okay, so maybe it’s really, really hot that Keith doesn’t object.

Lance clears his throat. “This is a fancy hotel, so I assume …?” He raises his eyebrows at Keith, who nods. Lance goes to the table beside the bed and rifles through the drawer. “Bingo.”

He grabs a foil packet and a discreet little bottle of lube, and turns back around. Keith’s seductive like a centerfold in just his open shirt and tight black shorts. _Ugh, ugh, ugh._

Lance leans over Keith, pinning him to the edge of the bed, and kisses him long and deep. Keith sucks on Lance’s tongue, kissing back a few times as Lance pushes the sheer fabric off his shoulders, lays him bare.

Keith’s hand finds Lance’s, and for a second he’s wondering how to deal with Keith suddenly getting all romantic, but all he does is pry the lube out of Lance’s fingers.

“You need some help with that?” Lance breathes.

“Don’t worry. Just lie back.”

And Lance shrugs, awkwardly gets into the bed and leans against the headboard. The pillows are soft against the small of his back. He props his arms behind his head, arches an eyebrow, doing his best to look aloof and not like he’s close to exploding with anticipation.

Keith steps out of his boxers and – crap – Lance tries not to stare too much at his cock, because getting hung up on _Keith Kogane’s goddamn dick_ isn’t something his pride can afford, okay?

And then—

Oooh—

Keith’s slicked up his fingers, and he’s standing on his knees, sinking into the silky red sheets. He reaches behind himself – body bending into a lithe arch, all taut, toned muscle – and starts working himself open, and Lance’s heart punches him in the throat.

It’s hot. It’s _really_ hot.

Keith’s brow is furrowed, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth, as he pushes his fingers deep inside himself. Waves of hot and cold wash through Lance’s entire body, and it’s all he can do not to palm at his own straining dick, throbbing in his shorts, demanding attention.

Keith hits a spot that must be good for him, and his composure breaks – he lets out this little gasping moan, and Lance’s stomach actually _lurches_.

He’s so sexy. Oh, god.

Keith glances up from under long, thick eyelashes. Lance swallows around the lump in his throat.

“So, you ready to deliver?” Keith growls.

“When you are, sweet thing,” Lance manages to reply, even fires off a wink, and Keith’s upper lip curls as he slips his fingers out. He grabs a tissue from the box beside the bed, meticulously wiping his hand clean.

And then he’s in Lance’s arms. Straddling him, in one swift motion, against the headboard of the bed.

His body is hard and firm and warm and oh, Lance wants him, wants him so bad. Lance lifts his hips, pushes his own underwear down his legs, tosses it beside the bed.

And they’re skin to skin. His head is spinning.

He tears the condom open with his teeth, rolls it on, Keith breathing hard in his lap.

“You want it?” Lance murmurs. “Come get it.”

Keith’s eyes glint in the low light.

He leans in, grasps Lance’s shoulder with one hand, his dick with the other. Kisses him, slow and soft and almost tender. Lifts his body up, positions himself just right, and pushes down.

And down.

Inching Lance inside him.

Sharp gasps as he takes it, inch by delicious inch. A moan that Lance kisses off his lips and swallows.

Neither of them were expecting the way it feels, as Keith lowers himself onto Lance, and they find out that they fit together like it was meant to be. It sends waves of searing sensation from Lance’s dick up through his stomach and chest and thighs – Keith is hot and tight in all the right places, and fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s going to _kill_ him.

Lance’s hands start trembling where they’re holding onto Keith’s hips, and Keith’s tighten on Lance’s shoulders, nails digging painful crescent moons into his flesh. Lance can feel Keith’s heartbeat, racing against his own skin.

“Ahh,” Keith gasps, and Lance curses out loud at that sexy little whine, at the way Keith’s dick twitches between them as he slips the rest of the way down – and then he’s all the way in, and Keith’s ass is flush against Lance’s thighs, and his eyes are dark and hooded and damn, _damn_ —

Keith shudders, and it echoes through Lance’s entire body, and then – then he honest to god _smirks_ , and starts to move.

And Lance? Lance almost dies.

Because oh, he’s so _hot_ , literally and figuratively, slick around Lance, warm in Lance’s arms. He goes slowly at first, staring into Lance’s eyes the whole time, and Lance can’t look away, bites down on his lip so hard it stings. Keith’s body is lithe and strong and muscular – nothing about him is soft, other than his hair and the sounds he makes as he takes Lance’s cock inside of him, again and again. Lance rocks his own hips up, and Keith mewls, throws his head back, baring the long column of his neck _._

Lance leans in, buries his face in Keith’s neck, and covers it in openmouthed kisses. Keith’s pulse throbs against his lips, each beat of his heart sending tremors down Lance’s spine; his scent fills Lance’s head, and it’s masculine and sweet and completely intoxicating.

Keith arches his back, their chests pressing together, and wraps his arms around Lance’s neck, cradles his head to hold him closer as Lance ravishes his throat. He sucks hard enough to leave a mark; Keith curses and drags his nails down Lance’s back and _shit_ , he probably shouldn’t like that as much as he does.

He moves up to Keith’s mouth, and they’re kissing again, deep and hard, Keith gasping into it, Lance sliding his hands down to cup Keith’s ass. He thrusts up a little harder, and Keith’s body shudders with it, and Lance grins into the kiss because _oh, yeah, I’ll have you undone yet—_

—and then he feels Keith’s palms against his chest, shoving him onto his back, and Lance’s eyes go wide.

He looks up at the boy with the swollen, shapely lips, the mussed black hair, the eyes so knowing under full dark brows …

… and Keith licks those lips, and smirks again, only wider.

He covers Lance’s hands, still resting on his hips, with his own. And says, in that husky voice:

“Time for you to find out what it’s like to _fuck me_ , Lance.”

And Keith goes to town.

And Lance goes to heaven.

The way Keith rides him – it’s like nothing he’s ever had before, the snap of his hips, his body so sweet and tight it has Lance seeing stars, because oh, each time Keith takes him in it’s bliss, bliss all the way down his spine, filling his chest – every time he lifts himself up Lance burns with the need to have him back, to be buried in him, in his heat …

Keith has amazing legs, muscular thighs clenched tight to Lance’s sides. He wants to bite them, mark them, and his eyes trail up Keith’s body, to the vee of his hipbones, the taut stomach ridged with abs – and suddenly he can’t make a decision anymore, can’t choose what part of Keith is his favorite. Because, god, Lance knew that Keith was gorgeous, he’s always known, but _this_ – Keith’s biting his bottom lip, and Lance has to clench his eyes shut for a moment, because it’s just too _much_.

He realizes what Keith is doing.

Lance refused to be the one to get fucked, so Keith is going to leave him so wrecked that it doesn’t even matter.

And he doesn’t _mind_. Not in the slightest.

Shit.

He moves his hands from Keith’s ass to his nipples, rubs his thumbs over them – and Keith groans, his head falling back, and comes down on Lance harder, making them both grunt.

God, he’s so fucking beautiful.

Words are falling out of Lance’s mouth, only half-coherent – “Damn, babe, you’re so – ahh – so pretty, let me kiss you, I wanna kiss your sexy mouth—”

“I thought _this_ was what you wanted,” Keith breathes, and fucks himself down onto Lance with a roll of his entire body that nearly fucking kills Lance dead.

“ _Ah_ – oh, yeah, mm … th-that too” – and helpless laughter bubbles out of Lance, and for a moment Keith freezes up, the flush in his cheeks deepening and spreading all the way down to his chest.

Then he seems to collect himself, all at once. “Mmmh,” he moans, settling down so Lance is – ooh – all the way inside him, and …

“Come on then, playboy” – the word _drips_ with sarcasm – “make me come.”

It nearly makes _Lance_ come, and he thinks Keith knows it, because damn, is he fuckin’ smug.

So Lance grabs his hips again, and arches into a grind so hard his back actually leaves the mattress, and Keith’s eyes go wide and all the breath rushes out of him.

Keith’s hands are back on Lance’s hands, gripping Keith hard enough to bruise his flesh. He runs Lance’s hands up his sides, over ribs and nipples and muscle, and sighs with pleasure – _he likes that, huh?_ – as he starts up a steady rhythm, skin on skin on skin.

Then they’re both done teasing, and allow themselves to just _feel_. Keith’s eyes flutter shut, and his lips part around half-formed words, brow creasing just slightly as he and Lance connect.

He looks amazing. He might be the hottest thing Lance has ever seen.

And, fuck. They work well together.

Understatement. That’s like calling faster-than-light travel _neat_ , or the molten core of the sun _toasty_.

But are there any superlatives big enough to describe this?

This is the kind of sex that turns you religious. The kind of sex you dreamed about as a teenager, before you’d ever had a crappy one night stand with someone whose edges never quite lined up with yours. It’s the kind of cosmic experience you believed all sex to be, back when everything you thought you knew came from torrid novels and glimpses of risqué clips. Ecstatic, amazing, all-encompassing.

That’s the kind of sex Lance has with Keith.

He doesn’t think either of them were ready for it, to be honest. Keith’s mouth is slackly open, his head thrown back at a gorgeous angle, slender chest heaving, nipples pert and pink and hard. Lance won’t admit it, but he knows he must look just as undone. He’s shuddering, gasping for breath, can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, dampening his bangs into disarray.

Every time Lance thrusts up, Keith grinds down to meet him. They come together, over and over, helpless broken sounds falling from Keith’s half-open lips, Lance’s entire mind going lightning-strike white each time Keith’s body tightens around him.

Lance has always been vocal in bed, and this time is no exception, a stream of words gushing out of him – “ah, fuck, fuck, yeah, that’s good, that’s it, that’s – mmh – _yes_ ” – he can’t stop it, not on his own, but Keith’s eyes gleam with something like annoyance, and the hand that isn’t gripping Lance’s hand goes to Lance’s mouth and—

—and then he’s shoved three fingers inside, effectively shutting Lance up; all he can do is groan, and lave at those fingers that curl against the roof of his mouth. Lance wants to close his eyes, just feel Keith in him and around him, but he also wants to see the look on his face when Lance pushes his tongue between those fingers, sucks them in a promise of what else his mouth can do.

It doesn’t disappoint him.

 _God,_ that expression is _priceless_.

And then a high whimper starts to rise from Keith’s throat, and his hand slips out of Lance’s mouth – leaving it lonely – and Lance can feel him trembling, tiny tremors that mean he’s approaching the edge, and—

—Lance closes his hand around Keith’s cock, gives it a few firm strokes, and Keith’s so close already that it’s enough.

He comes with a yell, onto Lance’s chest and stomach. And shit, the sight alone would have been enough to send Lance down with him, but the way his body seizes around Lance makes it an utter inevitability. On some earthly level, Lance hears the noise he makes, but the rest of him is flying high, so high and _oh_ —

It takes him several long moments to come down from that, and when he does, he finds Keith Kogane straddling him, breathing hard, his beautiful heart-shaped face flushed and a dazed look in his big dark eyes.

_If only the girls could see him now._

Lance tries not to think about what _he_ must look like. Judging by Keith’s expression, though, it’s gotta be good.

Keith’s eyes flick to the spots of his own cum, pale and sticky against Lance’s dark skin, and his face erupts in another wash of color.

He climbs off of Lance – limbs shaking a little, Lance notes with satisfaction – and curls up on his side. Lance peels off the condom, tosses it in the wastebasket beside the bed. He pulls a few tissues out of the box, hands a couple to Keith, and then starts wiping off his own chest.

He glances over at Keith, and purrs, “You sure know how to make a mess, huh?”

Keith flushes darker, but smirks as he finishes cleaning up between his legs. “What can I say? It’s a good look for you.”

And _shit_ , Lance feels his own cheeks burn.

Keith shivers a little, and Lance watches him unfold his body, peel back the sheets, and tuck himself underneath. Then Keith arches an eyebrow, and lifts the sheet up, invitingly – he’s all laid out like a dessert on a damn platter, and who is Lance to say no?

They end up making out like teenagers, bodies twisted together under the silky sheets. Lance drags openmouthed kisses down Keith’s neck and chest, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s leaving marks, and Keith retaliates by grabbing onto Lance’s hair and tightening his hand into a fist, rubbing his knee into Lance’s crotch almost petulantly. The whole thing is a lot more intimate and, well, _honest_ than what Lance would normally bother with during a one night stand, but if anything, he’s pretty sure he has the same effect on Keith that Keith’s having on him: the one that makes inhibition and composure seem like secondary concerns.

He doesn’t even know how late it is by the time he announces he needs to get the fuck out, and does his best to keep the aloof expression on his face as he gets back into his clothes.

“That was fun,” he says, over his shoulder, and spares one last look at Keith – a mistake, because it nearly has him throwing himself back into bed with him. “Although I’ve had better.”

Keith snorts. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lance blows him a kiss. Tries not to think about the fact that he just banged his mortal enemy – or, worse, that he’d jump at the chance to do it again.

“Bye, Mullet. Sweet dreams.”

 

* * *

 

Keith Kogane wakes up sore.

Wakes up, for the first time in who knows how long, from a deep and dreamless sleep.

He glances out the huge panoramic window. The Altean sun is high in the sky.

What time _is_ it?

He swings his legs out of bed, gets up, and flinches at the ache in his pelvis.

Damn. They really went at it, huh?

Lance Álvarez. Of all people.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, drags himself into the bathroom to take a shower, rinse off the smell of alcohol and sex and _Lance_ that’s clinging to his skin. There’s a dull throb in his lower body, an echo of what they did last night and – and, no, he can’t think about that now.

It was a one-time thing. Might as well not have happened. It doesn’t matter that it was the best sex Keith’s had in a very long time – a one night stand is a one night stand, even if it _was_ a great one.

Fine, more than great, he admits grudgingly.

So he and Lance are ridiculously compatible. Big deal.

Keith lathers up his body with soap, pointedly ignoring the love bites staining his chest like berry juice. _I can’t believe I slept so well._

He has always been a light sleeper, and for good reason. But lately, he’s been lying half-awake all through the night, the handle of his knife clenched in his fist beneath the pillow, violently jerking back from the edge of sleep every time he teeters near it.

He’s been paranoid. And exhausted.

And all it took was one night of riding Lance like a bull at the rodeo to send him off to blissful oblivion.

That … kind of pisses him off.

Keith scowls, rinsing shampoo out of his hair, then turns off the water and dries his body. He swaddles his hair in a towel, slips into one of the complimentary fluffy bathrobes he wouldn’t let anyone, even Shiro, catch him dead in, and pads out into the living room.

He’s considering calling room service – he could eat about three breakfasts right now – when he notices a scribble on the notepad beside the phone.

Keith suddenly feels the ache in his hips that much more acutely.

He picks it up, and reads.

_Hey cowboy,  
You want more where that came from, just let me know._

And underneath, seven digits – a private number.

“Prick,” Keith mutters, even as a thrill arcs through him from head to toe.

He folds the note up, and dials room service, and prays they can’t hear the smile in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a playlist for this fic that you can find on spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4?si=9rg8_Kr9SGKD0NjYYCFp4Q), or if you don't have spotify, the tracklist is on my tumblr [here](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/171552047579/deepest-shade-fic-playlist). since music has been really important for helping me write this fic, i'll be sharing some of the most important songs in the notes of each chapter, for those of you who are into that c: this fic was originally inspired by Michael Bublé's "Feeling Good" and Lady Gaga's "Donatella."
> 
> big hugs go to skylocked @tumblr, for suggesting debussy and being an all around dear. consider this chapter an early birthday present ♥♥♥ and thanks to everyone else who has been excited for this fic and let me yell at them about it. you know who you are and I LOVE U ALL DEARLY.
> 
> feel free to message me on tumblr if u have any questions about this fic or just want to scream back and forth about something!! i'll be thrilled 12 times out of 10 c:  
> [main](http://cloudstrifing.tumblr.com)  
> [voltron blog](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com)
> 
> finally, here's a True Science Fact: i subsist entirely off of reader comments and photosynthesis, and am 100% guaranteed to cry every time. thanks for reading!


	2. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which castles are visited, and princes found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was a bitch.  
> it also ended up a lot longer than i anticipated. hence, this chapter and the next comprise the original chapter 2. meaning, the second half is where the smut is.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: there is going to be some lance/lotor in this fic (later on, but yeah). it's not endgame stuff, but it'll definitely be there. so if this is an extreme notp for you, now you know. if you're just concerned about the way this relationship has been portrayed in some other fics, all i can do is assure you that i don't intend to write it as predatory or abusive _at all_. i mean, we have a lot of creative freedom with this character since he doesn't exist in VLD yet, and that kind of thing is not my jam.
> 
>  **[fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4)**  
>  important songs this time around:  
> Gambling Man -- The Overtones  
> Dynamite -- Adore Delano  
> Ain't My Fault -- Zara Larsson
> 
> now. please enjoy~

Eyes on him.

Boring into the back of his neck. Tickling down his spine. A presence in the blind spot at the small of his back, where he’ll never be able to see without a mirror.

There. Always.

It creeps under his skin. He turns, imagines he can feel warm breath at the nape of his neck, stares into blackness, sees nothing—

—and something is at his throat, _gripping_ _choking squeezing_ —

Keith jerks awake, breath burning in his windpipe, chest heaving, heart jackhammering against his ribs.

He loosens his grip on the knife, its handle lined up perfectly with the calluses on his palm, and releases a shuddering breath.

It sends him back to a time he thought he’d left behind. To wide eyes and shallow breathing, to peering around every corner before turning it, to an adrenaline burst hot on his heels, making his heart pound, urging him onward, forward, away from _death certain death don’t let them catch you—_

He exhales, sinks back against the fluffy pillow. His bed could fit four of him. The sheets are silk. He’s clean, and warm, and full.

_This is my life now._

So why does he feel chased?

Why does he feel _watched_?

He remembers his one night of deep sleep. Brown skin and a dazzling white smile and an attitude that’s rotten through.

Keith sighs, and drags a hand across his face.

There’s an exhaustion in his eyes that doesn’t match the tense wakefulness of his body. He pulls the covers over himself, nuzzling into darkness, and makes another attempt at rest. Unsuccessfully.

 

* * *

  

“Are you playing Pidge again?”

Hunk’s voice fills Lance’s living room, as crisp in the high-fidelity speakers as if he’s actually there – except it’s coming from every direction, omnipresent. Hunk the Godhead. Our Lord and Savior.

“Nope,” says Lance, crossing his legs over one another. They’re bare underneath his bathrobe. “She’s not online. Meaning, she probably is online, just doing something else.”

“Cool. Maybe you’ll win for once.”

“Funny how you keep saying words, but I’m not hearing anything.” Lance’s character – sniper, always – picks off a couple of enemy players, then dashes for new cover. It’s true, Pidge is a more formidable challenge than all of these guys put together.

Katie Holt – known also as Pidge, the Other Friend, Dork the Third, and Tiny Child – might look like an unassuming tech, complete with enormous glasses and unruly mop of hair. But underestimate her at your peril: keyboards and controllers are her weapons, and she’s a master wielder.

The story of the mysterious “gund3rs0n” started three years ago, when Lance kept getting his ass kicked at his favorite online game. _Legendary Defender_ is the crowning jewel of the classic Voltron series: old but never tarnished, and enough of a cult classic to still have active servers up. In an bizarre twist of fate, the player who’d been singlehandedly destroying Lance for the past several months turned out to be an intern at Álvarez Cargo.  Hunk was the one who figured it out. He spotted her working in the shuttle bay, pinpointing the nerdy design on her T-shirt from an absurd distance, and immediately introduced himself.

At Hunk’s insistence, Pidge and Lance actually ended up making friends. They both thought it was a little weird at first – after all, Lance is the big boss’s kid – but other people who are into the vintage Voltron series are too rare to pass up.

And the rest? History. They’re a trio, but Pidge is too introverted – and too young, barely twenty – to join in on most of their escapades. It’s kind of an open secret that Hunk thinks Pidge is a good influence – tempting Lance back into the world of snacks, video games, and nights in, instead of drinking himself senseless in a club full of perfect strangers. Lance knows this, and he knows he’s being mothered, but can’t bring himself to mind. And even though they banter mercilessly, he can’t help but love Pidge, too.

In fact, maybe he loves her _because_ they banter mercilessly.

“It’s too bad she can’t come with us,” Hunk says wistfully. He is convinced Pidge will be a gambling prodigy one day. “Anyway, I’ll swing by and pick you up around nine. Wouldn’t want to interfere with your routiiine.”

“You know me so well, babe.” Lance smiles, through the stiffness of the clay mask on his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you showed up early.”

“Sorry, dude. Still have to finish tomorrow’s video.”

“Of course.” Hunk’s channel, like him, swings between serious social issues and geeking out over tech and food. Fridays are geek-out days. “Good luck, man.”

“See you soon.” A note of glee creeps into Hunk’s voice. “And get ready for the jackpot.”

 

* * *

  

“So, when can we go in Kaltenecker?” Lance asks Hunk. They’re sitting in the back of the chauffeured shuttle, zipping through the stars.

“Um, never? She isn’t that kind of ship?”

“Hunk, what is the point of modding a spaceship if you’re never going to fly it?”

“It’s a tech project! Look, I put _years_ of work into that thing. One reckless move, and my pride and joy goes kaboom.”

He makes an explosion gesture with his hands, giving Lance a very pointed look. Lance rolls his eyes.

Kaltenecker is an old freighter that Hunk rescued from the Álvarez ship graveyard, and she’s been his pet project for the better part of two years. Hunk builds gizmos galore for her, tweaking and improving her machinery and engine. Since they made friends with Pidge, she’s been helping him work on the software side of things, adjusting the nav, comms, and AI.

They’re doing amazing work, but Hunk is unrelenting: she doesn’t leave the garage. What Lance would call a sense of adventure, Hunk calls a sense of self-preservation.

It’s a shame. Lance would love to take her for a spin one day.

He looks out the shuttle window. The swarm of orbiting stations ahead signals the looming presence of the Castle of Lions. Lance feels a grin pulling at his lips. He loves this place. It’s sketchy, but it’s a hub. A diseased heart, that stubbornly keeps pumping the blood of played-and-lost currency out into the universe. The Castle has been here a long, long time, and it’s not disappearing any time soon.

Their shuttle glides past the copious satellite stations – places where you can buy merchandise, a bed for the night, or a good time, if you’re too cheap or poor or unwelcome to visit the main attraction itself.

They approach the gleaming silver monolith of the Castle and pull into the docking bay, coming to a smooth halt. They’re greeted by an alien attendant – light green skin, long thin arms, deep burgundy uniform. Hunk gets out first, and playfully extends a hand to Lance, who takes it and steps onto the carpeted floor with the daintiness of a debutante.

Hunk is dressed in a suit of plush purple velvet, a gardenia blossom in his buttonhole. Another person might have looked like they were wearing the upholstery of an old-fashioned chair, but with Hunk’s wide, solid body and aura of calm intelligence, all it does is radiate class. Looking at him now, you wouldn’t think he’s the guy who always makes sure to restock the barf bags in the back of the shuttle.

Lance’s three-piece is a muted navy, paired with a bright red tie. It hugs his figure, emphasizing both the width of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist (he’s looked at himself from every angle in the dressing room mirror, so he _knows_ ). They make a dashing pair. He adjusts his jacket, grins at Hunk, and they walk down the carpeted corridor that leads to the Castle’s main hall.

It opens up, around them and above them, a perfect columned circle with a marble floor. The ceiling is impossibly high, tiers upon tiers of balconies extending to a pinprick-tiny skylight at the very top. That’s the hotel – the best suites are up high, but even the rooms on the lowest levels charge a hefty fee.

Lance and Hunk have already booked their rooms for the night, somewhere near the middle.

Looming around them, watching with impassive crystal eyes, are five massive lion heads. Each one is easily the height of five men. Their yawning maws each lead to their own section of the Castle. Yellow houses the gastronomy wing, where cuisines from across galaxies come together in colorful fusion dishes (some, Hunk and Lance both agree, better than others). Green harbors corporate space, meeting facilities, and the intimidating servers. (“Yeah, they’re stacked,” Pidge said, when they told her about it. “The place is a fuckin’ tank.” At which point Hunk exclaimed, in abject terror, “You tried to hack a _casino?_ ”) Blue is an entertainment complex deluxe, complete with a full-fledged amusement park, haunted house, and aquarium, while Red provides a different way to pass the time – the kind usually paired with money changing hands. Underground fights by fist and gun and sword, thrilling games that toe the line of legality.

And Black – the crown jewel – is the hulking entrance to the biggest, richest casino on this side of charted space.

That, of course, is where they head.

They pass the foyer, with its lifelike holograms of snarling winged lions, and enter a room jangling with colorful slot machines. Hunk prefers the table games – blackjack, poker, roulette, and entertainments of alien origin, based on the same mystical combination of numbers and luck. He rubs his big hands together, broad shoulders moving under his plush suit.

“All right. Time to win big.”

  

* * *

  

The Castle is one of those places Keith isn’t sure he likes, but has been to enough times for it to feel familiar. The gleaming marble floors, the soft glow of chandeliers, the clinking of glasses and clatter of betting chips. Well-dressed people, risking ridiculous amounts of cash.

That cash flow is the reason he’s here.

“Nothing serious on the agenda today,” Shiro murmurs, behind him. Keith knows it looks like a bodyguard arrangement – which is true, in a sense, but they’re more like partners than anything else. Shiro has experience and professionalism that Keith lacks, while Keith has both the authority of the Kogane name and a rough, wild edge to him that people can sense, past his pressed white shirts and expensive cufflinks. “We’re not looking for anyone special, but …”

“Just letting them know we’re here.”

Shiro smiles wryly. “Right.”

This is part of the Kogane way. The Madame’s tendrils are everywhere, as is her influence, her eyes and ears. Keith and Shiro are just extensions of her body, reminding the people of the universe that they are being watched by an entity far older and more powerful than they will ever be.

Lots of people owe the Koganes. Shiro and Keith are here to see if any of those people have decided to … try their luck, so to speak. Someone has to make sure they’re being responsible with that borrowed money.

They rarely have to do anything. Just their presence is often incentive enough to make most people think twice. Shiro’s brawn, and his scars, tell their own story. As for Keith, he has a knack for making people uncomfortable. It’s something about the black depths of his eyes, the solemnity of his expression – and the whispers, always at his back.

_It’s that Kogane boy._

_He’s not really her son._

_Where did he come from?_

_Who is he?_

Well. Hell if he knows.

He enters the mouth of the Black Lion, with Shiro’s comforting presence at his heels.

 

* * *

 

It’s not long before Lance drifts away from Hunk, leaving him with the other players (or, rather, leaving them to him). Hunk’s a star gambler, and it always makes Lance feel a little out of his depth. Behind his best friend’s kind brown eyes, odds and numbers rattle past machine-gun quick. He knows what bets to make, what cards to play, and perhaps most importantly – when to stop.

“The game’s always rigged in favor of the house,” he’s explained to Lance. “If there are no winners in the short term, no one shows up to play, and the place is bust. But the house always profits in the long term. I try to play like the house.”

Lance isn’t sure exactly how it works, but Hunk has a killer poker face, and a knack for counting cards. He doesn’t always win big, but he wins _often_.

Personally, Lance comes mostly to mingle. The Castle is a place free of obligations, not somewhere he has to be to send a message, or network, or serve a function for something bigger than himself. He can just have fun – enjoy the decadence, liberate his credit chip from some of its heavy burden. It’s not a bad way of doing things, he thinks.

And – oh. Especially not today.

Princess Allura is here. Jackpot indeed.

She’s wearing a sparkling black dress that flares out at the knees, open at the back to expose a swath of dark brown skin. Her silver hair is piled up in a bun arrangement on top of her head, beneath a net of tiny crystals. Black stones glimmer in her pointed ears. She’s sipping a purple cocktail from a delicate glass, smiling and greeting other patrons.

_She knows me. I can do this._

He strides over. “Hi, Princess. Having a good time?”

Her beautiful eyes land on him. “Hello, Lance.” That British lilt to her words has always perplexed him a little – who ever heard of a British alien? – but, he admits, he’s kind of into it. “Yes, thank you. How are you?”

“Peachy.” He shoots her a radiant smile. “You look fantastic.”

She smiles back, showing pearly teeth. “Thank you. So do you.”

He feels himself blush a little, noting her smoky eyeshadow, the dark color of her lips. “I love the makeup, by the way. Is it an Altean brand?”

And he’s managing! He’s doing it, keeping up a proper conversation with her, and it has a little spark of joy dancing in his belly. Lance is good at reading people – he’s a flirt, sure, but he doesn’t like to make others uncomfortable. And discomfort is not what he’s reading in the relaxed slope of Allura’s shoulders.

“So,” he says, a while later. Still totally talking to her. “You gamble often?”

“I don’t really come to play.” She gives him a mischievous look. “Actually, a sizable chunk of this place belongs to me.”

“Seriously?” Lance exclaims, like a fucking child. Can she get any more amazing? Can he act like any more of a dweeb?

She smiles. “Seriously. This place has a long history with Alteans. Oh – did you know Coran bartends?”

“No _way_.” Now that she’s planted the image in his head, though, he can definitely see it. “But you must be aware of the Castle’s, uh, reputation?”

“As a haven for all sorts of suspicious characters?” She smiles. “Of course. I deal with them all the time. Both on and off the record.”

His eyebrows shoot up at that. “I thought Altean leadership was all about morality. The right thing to do, all that jazz. How does that line up?”

“The right thing to do is usually some shade of grey,” Allura says, with a crooked, savvy smile. “That’s the essence of diplomacy. Take the Unilu, for instance.” She nods her silvery head to indicate the little frog-like creatures, ubiquitous among the dealers’ tables. The species is known for their piracy and merciless haggling – natural for denizens of a solar system where resources are scant, but nevertheless distressing for the rest of the universe. “They’re involved in shady business, without a doubt, but I find the best way to deal with it is in the open. Keep them happy, give them plenty of opportunities to spend that hard-earned cash – and things stay at a level that can be monitored.” She sips her drink. “And controlled.”

“Hmm,” says Lance. Allura has a cool intelligence that’s impressed him. Almost makes him want to be serious, and talk politics, or relativity, or something. He has to remind himself who he’s decided to be, and lets a smooth grin settle onto his face. “So you like being in control, Princess?”

Her smile could freeze the surface of a molten planet. “Oh, Lance. Don’t bother.” She gives his elbow the briefest squeeze. “Here’s another piece of trivia. You and I have something in common.”

“Oh?” He lowers his voice to a sultry purr. “What’s that?”

“A weakness for beautiful women.”

Her turquoise eyes gleam, and Lance almost _hears_ his jaw drop and hit him square in the chest.

Oh, man.

She’s already smirking and gliding away, leaving Lance to haplessly recover. _Don’t you dare jerk off to this,_ he tells himself, but he can feel his weak resolve failing.

Oh, _man_. He needs some air.

Still feeling light-headed, he winds his way through the crowd, aiming for one of the terraces. They surround the man-made (okay, wrong word, but semantics) garden that sits like a gem in the middle of the casino proper. Lance has always thought of it as a snow globe of sorts, protected and pristine, and not actually real.

Once he’s out, he leans against one of the carved railings and sucks the illusion of fresh air into his lungs. He reaches into one of his pockets, fishing out a pack of cigs and a slim, monogrammed lighter.

He lights one, and takes a drag.

Lance knows it’s disgusting, and he knows it’s bad for his skin – for his everything, really. But he likes the way the cigarette feels between his fingers, even likes the self-destructive fuck-you feeling of the smoke scratching its way into his lungs. So he allows himself this, sometimes.

“Excuse me.” A deep, rich voice. “Do you have a light?”

He turns. And there: shoulders for days, scar slashing across the bridge of the nose, distinctive white forelock. Lance’s heart punches him in the ribs.

 _Shiro. Shiro’s talking to me._ Is there no end to his luck today?

He wills his hands not to fumble. “Uh. Sure.”

Shiro takes a silver box out of the breast pocket of his black suit, selecting a cigarette of his own. Lance flicks the lighter again, touches the flame to the tip; a bright cherry flares to life there.

Lance’s hero takes a long, slow drag, his forehead creasing with something like bliss.

Lance mirrors the motion with tentative confidence. He’s smoking, with Takashi Shirogane, on the terrace of an interstellar casino. _Holy shit, Lance. You made it._

“So you smoke?” Lance says, ruining the moment instantly. _No, he asked you for the lighter so he could set himself on fire._

Shiro holds it in his lungs for a few heartbeats, then exhales it all in one long sigh. It billows around him in a white cloud.

“My one vice,” he says, with a wry grin. “Calms my nerves.” He’s holding the cigarette between the gloved fingers of his right hand. The Galra hand.

Questions, ridiculous and manifold, crowd in Lance’s throat. _Why do you have to work for the Koganes? Why do you have to wait on Keith? You deserve better. You’re a hero. You’re_ my _hero._

Lance feels like a little boy. He feels like he’s about to ask for an autograph, about to be rejected.

He watches Shiro out of the corner of his eye. He blows smoke out of his nostrils, in thin white wisps.

Shiro looks out over the dark garden beneath them. This is all technically inside the space station’s engineered environment, but the breeze on their skin feels crisp and real. There are winding paths for friends and hidden spots for lovers among the lush trees down below. Peaceful fauna dwells in bush and shrub. The vast, domed ceiling is clear, made from a material harder than glass, and open to the stars.

What’s Shiro thinking about? What does he worry about? Shiro, who fought so valiantly. Shiro who’s done so much, seen so much. There’s a twinge in Lance’s heart, like a string on an out-of-tune guitar.

_What am I, compared with him?_

Shiro lost his arm risking his own safety to protect his allies, his people. He went back for them without hesitation. Thinking about it, Lance feels a throb behind his ribs. Of envy, of awe. And of anger, because why doesn’t Shiro value himself enough to be something – anything – other than Keith’s shadow?

He wants to think of something good to say, but the words are crowding in his mouth, threatening to spill out all at once if he opens it.

So he’s silent.

Shiro’s cigarette has burned down to a stub. He crushes the butt in a nearby ashtray.

“Well, break time’s over.” He shoots Lance a blinding smile. A model’s smile, not a soldier’s. “Thanks for the light.”

“Right. No problem. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Shirogane.”

Shiro’s broad back turns to him, and Lance closes his eyes. Resents himself.

 

* * *

 

 Shiro is on his smoke break, so Keith drifts.

He follows the edges of the room, looking at people without really seeing their faces, and—

“Keith, hi!”

He nearly jumps, then curses himself for being so skittish. A friendly face swims into focus – Hunk, well-known vidder-slash-activist, Lance's best friend.

Lance. Keith hates the way he suddenly needs to swallow, multiple times.

If Hunk is here, then so is he.

_Someone’s talking to you. Get a fucking grip._

“Hey.” Well. It’s a start.

“Hey,” Hunk repeats, without an ounce of Lance’s sarcasm. “I just wanted to say thanks for before. With Lance, on Altea.”

At first, Keith is terrified. What the hell is he talking about? How much does he _know_? He just stands there, helplessly trusting his face to do that deadpan thing it’s supposedly so good at, while panic rages inside of him.

“I heard from the people in the lobby that you helped him back to his room. You know, when he was hammered. Dude, I totally owe you one.”

Hunk smiles, guileless and unaware. Back to _his_ room. As in, Lance’s own. Right. Somehow this makes Keith feel worse than if Hunk had actually exposed him.

“Oh. Uh. Sure.”

“Yeah. See, Lance and alcohol is …” Hunk shakes his head. His thick dark hair has been combed back from his strong forehead, just barely brushing his collar. “… a combo with history. I mean, you know he talked big in high school, but he actually stayed more or less in line. He kind of went nuts afterward, though. You’d already dropped out by then, I think.”

“Really?” Keith says, mind on autopilot. He’s slept with Lance Álvarez. He’s been thinking pretty hard about sleeping with Lance Álvarez again, the digits of that phone number engraved behind his eyes. He can’t blame himself for feeling interested in him, even if he does feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Hunk is known for being a gossip with a heart of gold. Keith doesn’t exactly keep up with vids, but he does know that Hunk has had to apologize on his channel for getting overexcited about rumors that turned out not to be true.

“Yeah,” Hunk continues, frowning. “He partied too much. As in, when he wasn’t drunk, he was hungover. Rolled with shitty crowds. The kind of assholes who would buy expensive champagne just to pour it out, you know? I’m a gourmand, so that was really crossing the line in my book.” He says it with a chuckle, but genuine concern is apparent in his tone, in his dark brown eyes. Was there ever a friend as real as Hunk? “Anyway, he straightened out eventually. But it was a bad time for everyone involved.”

Keith tells himself he doesn’t usually care about other people’s business unless he’s been told that he should. Unless there’s somebody he needs to fix with a cold stare, remind of a debt with Shiro looming at his back, pull a knife on if it comes to that. If it’s not like that, Keith doesn’t care.

Which is why it’s odd that he asks, “How come he went off the rails?”

Hunk considers for a moment, but it doesn’t seem like he’s debating whether or not Keith is the right person to tell, more like he is wondering which words to use. Hunk never shared Lance’s beef with Keith – before Keith dropped out at the beginning of senior year, they had a few classes together, even the occasional lunch. Keith’s not sure what that makes them, but it’s not enemies.

“Well, honestly? I think it’s because he felt he had every reason in the world to be happy, but he wasn’t. ‘Live fast, party hard’ was his way of coping.” Hunk shrugs his broad shoulders. “Oh, well. He’s fine now, but still, I worry. I guess I’m the mom friend.”

“That’s cool,” says Keith, and immediately cringes. He’s so bad at small talk, even now that he’s supposed to be someone, whatever the fuck that means.

Hunk grins, and Keith acknowledges that he’s handsome in a reliable sort of way, with the defined eyebrows and strong jaw. His hands are huge, but his demeanor is gentle. Keith wonders if Lance has noticed these things. “Yeah. Anyway, it was good seeing you. You seem to be doing well.”

 _I don’t know about that._ “More or less. Not a lot going on.”

“In your case, I feel like that’s a good thing. Anyway, I’m gonna hit the poker table. But hey, thanks again, Keith.”

Hunk waves over his shoulder before Keith has time to reply. Honestly, it’s probably better that way.

_If Hunk is here, then so is he._

His heart thuds in his chest. He feels it in his entire body.

 

* * *

  

Lance is back inside. He’s not sure if he’s come entirely back to his senses yet, but all in good time.

He combs the crowd for Hunk, looking for that purple suit. He feels like it’s nearing that have-a-ridiculously-fancy-cocktail-with-your-best-friend time of night, and he’s sure Hunk would agree.

Narrowing his eyes, he picks off people one by one. Not Hunk, not Hunk, not Hunk—

—oh.

Not Hunk.

But fucking gorgeous.

The man has the lilac skin of a Galra, beautifully chiselled features, and a long mane of silky white hair. The gleam of the rings on his fingers is obvious from across the room. There’s a beautiful girl clinging to each of his arms. _Doubly decorated, huh?_

It’s tacky. Sleazy. Undeniably so. And still – he makes it work. There’s something about his composure, the way he carries himself. Lance isn’t sure if he’d rather be the man himself, or one of those girls.

He’s aware that he’s staring.

And Lance doesn’t know if it’s Galra senses or what, but the man seems to sense the gaze on him, looks up, and spots Lance with ease.

Their eyes meet. And damn, if he doesn’t feel a spark fly.

Lance shoots off his best-polished little smirk, cocks an eyebrow along with his hip.

The man’s gaze lingers.

Lance bites his lower lip. Hmm. Maybe he won’t have to jerk off toni—

_Bzzzz._

His phone buzzes in his pocket, demanding attention. It startles him, ending the moment, and the handsome Galra and his entourage move on.

Shit.

Lance doesn’t recognize the number, but he might as well pick up now. If nothing else, it’s a chance to practice his snappy one-liners.

“This is Lance, the uninterrupted.”

“I’m by the bar.”

The husky voice is distorted through the phone, but unmistakable. It sends a shiver rippling down Lance’s spine.

He glances over toward the bar.

Oh. He sure is.

His hair’s tied back into a ponytail, is the first thing Lance notices. His jawline could cut glass. His exposed neck disappears under a crisp, black collar. _Is black all he owns?_ Lance thinks, as his eyes trail down that brushstroke body, overwhelmed by the memory of soft skin and hard muscle.

_I fucked that._

His heart does an embarrassing hiccup in his chest.

“Howdy, cowboy. Having fun?”

 

* * *

  

_Lance._

There he is. His suit is navy, his tie the red of fresh blood. His slender figure cuts a perfect silhouette in the dim lighting. Keith could trace those long legs with his eyes forever.

So he’s pretty.

So Keith saw his hands on that piano and immediately wanted to feel them on his skin.

So for a moment, with Lance’s dick inside him, he forgot his own name.

Keith’s not about denial. He knows what he’s after.

“You told me to call if I wanted more.” Beat. Lance says nothing, just stares at him, from across the room. “Well, I want more.”

For a moment, Lance actually looks surprised. His eyes widen, and the expression is genuine, not calibrated, like most of his actions. It dawns on Keith that he is noticing this because he’s been studying Lance so intently. He narrows his eyes. Damn. Damn that smirk, and those hands, and that body that Keith’s _had_ , that Keith’s _come_ on—

—and he can’t think like this now.

“Oh, really,” says Lance, silky-smooth.

“ _You_ left your number.” Spoken through gritted teeth. Is he going to play hard to get? If he does, Keith might scream. _Just admit you felt it too. Tell me you want me, damn it._

“I did.” And he’s turning away, not looking at Keith directly anymore. His voice drops a little. “There’s a spot near the lounge that’s always deserted. Potted plant right outside, weird yellow leaves. Be there in ten.” Lance arches an eyebrow, smiling, and before Keith can say anything, he pointedly hangs up. Keith scowls, lowers his own phone, as Lance turns on his heel and walks off with a sway of the hips that can’t possibly be accidental.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

Keith makes an excuse to Shiro and slips away, feeling like he has guilt written all over his face. As subtle as a leopard in the Arctic.

He stalks through the plush hallways, passes a conference room and its echoes of raucous laughter, until he’s alone with himself and smooth jazzy music drifting down from overhead.

There’s that plant, just like Lance said.

And leaned up against the wall, bored and languid, there he is. The face of Keith’s reluctant fantasies.

It’s dim here, throwing deep chiaroscuro shadows over Lance’s face. Keith’s stomach coils, and the coils start to glow.

He steps closer. Lance’s eyes gleam in the low light, and Keith’s head fills with the memory of hands on skin.

He’s in a tailored three-piece now, but Keith remembers what he looked like naked.

“Well, hello. The prodigal son bothers showing up.”

Keith has always hated small talk.

He crowds himself into Lance’s space all at once, grabs the lapels of his jacket, and kisses him on the mouth.

And going in so hot, Keith is disappointed when the seam of Lance’s lips stays closed, and hands grip his biceps only to push him away.

“Whoa, down boy.” And the smugness in his tone is too much. Keith’s vibrating with arousal, the whiff of Lance’s scent he caught already making his head feel light. But there’s a foul, ashy smell there too, that makes it easier for Keith to break away. _Ugh._ He thought Shiro was the only one who liked to smoke.

“You’re the one who told me to come here,” he growls under his breath, fixing Lance’s cool gaze with his own. And is that the slightest flush in his cheeks? It better be.

“While I’m flattered you’re so into me you’d jump me in a hallway, I do like to pretend I’m classier than that.” Keith is just about to ask him what the fuck that means, when cool plastic slips between Keith’s fingers, along with the ghost of human warmth. “Room 610. Midnight. I’ll be there.”

Keith glances at the glossy black keycard in his hand. “How are _you_ getting in?”

“Always keep a spare, sweetheart.” Lance winks. “Gambling’s not the only way to get lucky.”

Cheesy. Appalling. And still, he’s got this smug expression as he says it – like he knows it’s awful, and he’s proud of it.

Keith wants to kick him. Keith wants to kiss him.

“Later, then,” Lance purrs, and starts to slink away. And although Keith wants to bang his fist against the wall beside his head, bite his smirking lower lip until it bleeds, he lets him go.


	3. Onyx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVAN, THIS ONE IS FOR YOU. thanks for your patience and your nagging and your supporting me since day one. i love u. enjoy the porn.
> 
> warnings:  
> *coughs into hand* light bondage
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4?si=yC4R7MeQTCyBL6uYGN79nw)  
>  **

Keith gets to 610 at 11:58 exactly.

Fine, maybe he was impatient. Maybe the whole time he was sitting down at the bar, talking with Coran and spinning the empty glass between his palms over and over, he actually felt like jumping out of his skin and bolting up here.

It’s not that Keith is usually a cool-headed, rational thinker. He wouldn’t call himself _reckless_ , but he’s acknowledged that he operates better on instinct. He doesn’t begrudge himself that.

But now he’s thinking with his dick. And that’s a whole new level of bad.

The keycard snicks through the old-fashioned slot, and when the door slides open, Keith’s heart is beating hard, and his palms are sweaty.

The room is empty.

He senses it a split second after stepping inside. Lance isn’t here. No one is. He’s alone.

Disappointment blazes inside him. It feels like rage.

_I hate him._

_Bastard. Tart. Asshole._

Keith lets out the tension building in his chest and fists in a long, slow sigh. He’s technically early. He’ll just invite himself in.

He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes, just walks right into the spacious room. Desk. Armchair. Star-view window. Wide double bed.

Keith’s pulse flutters.

He sits down in the desk chair, crosses his legs over the impending chub between them.

Why does Lance affect him like this?

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him. His smirk. His silky dark skin. The way he moaned, as Keith took his cock inside.

And his hands. Oh, damn.

But on the other hand, there’s _Lance_.

He is obnoxious, and loud, with an infuriating superiority complex and a particular chip on his shoulder regarding Keith. Keith has come to understand that it stems from their high school days, where he, freshly thrown into a brand-new existence, didn’t have any idea who Lance was.

A capital offense, apparently. Because everyone’s supposed to know who Lance Álvarez is. So everyone can be ready to kiss Lance Álvarez’s ass.

Keith scowls just thinking about it. Lance was raised on a silver platter, fattened on caviar and designer clothes. For some reason, he expects people to respect him for it.

_Sorry, I was too busy adjusting to not having to fight to survive to play your popularity games._

And he brings out the worst in Keith. Always griping or bragging about inconsequential things, in a way that has competition rearing its head inside of Keith. It makes him want to put Lance in his place, fight back, prove his worth. He hates himself around Lance – Lance who’s everything people believe Keith is, or should be; _those rich boys, they’re all the same_ – so he hates Lance too.

Keith kicks at the wall behind the desk with one pointy black shoe.

But he’s attractive. Fuck.

Strong emotions, for Keith, are all so similar. Blazing up in his gut like fire. Burning away rhyme and reason.

Anger and lust, apparently, are easy to confuse.

He feels that fire spread to his face. Swallowing, he glances at this new nondescript hotel bed, with its wide frame, its headboard with a lattice of geometrical cutouts.

He remembers Lance’s laughter, that seemed to make his awful personality melt away from him, slough off like an old skin.

Keith bangs his fist on the desk, rattling the stupid decorative vase, and glances at the time again.

12:06. He’s still not here.

 

* * *

  

It is 12:33 by the time Lance shows up.

The swipe of the keycard heralds his arrival. He strolls in, all lanky limbs and tipsy grace, and shrugs out of his expensive suit jacket, tossing it over one shoulder.

“Well, helloooo. Look who’s here.”

“Look who’s late,” Keith says, through gritted teeth.

Lance laughs, sharp and hollow and nothing like that eye-crinkling, breathless laughter from before. “Sorry, sweetheart. A guy can’t help if he’s well-liked. I’ve been having drinks with some lovely ladies at the sky bar. The cocktails are just _amazing_ —”

“Or maybe,” Keith interrupts, “you thought showing up late would make you look cool. Scared I’d stand you up?”

That seems to give Lance pause. His smirk flickers, thin eyebrows drawing together ever-so-slightly. “Did you lose the entire ill-gotten Kogane fortune at the roulette or something? Lighten up, geez.” He sniffs. “This is why I can’t stand you.”

He is so full of shit.

Keith stands up.

There’s a moment where they just glare at one another, eyes narrowed, jaws tense. Sizing each other up.

_How easy would it be to rip his throat out?_

They’ve fought before. Keith knows he’s stronger.

Lance’s eyes are dark, dark blue, glinting almost black in the soft lamplight. He sneers – a flash of white canine under the curl of his lip.

That does it.

Keith grabs Lance’s tie, yanks him in close, and kisses him _hard_.

It’s clumsy, bruising; their teeth clack together as Lance’s mouth drops open – to kiss back or to object, Keith doesn’t know; but he doesn’t care, just licks at Lance’s mouth and kisses, kisses, kisses, drowns himself until he’s forced to come up for air.

He breaks away, and there’s a wet slurp that’s undignified and kind of disgusting. Honestly, that’s a perfect description of this entire affair.

Keith feels Lance’s rapid breath against his face. He inhales – alcohol, still a whiff of cigarettes, but overlaying it all, a sharp, tingling mint. Lance has taken something to freshen up. He’s prepared.

Keith smirks.

“If this” – and he leans back in, taking Lance’s lower lip between his teeth, biting softly before he lets it slip free – “isn’t what you came for, then get the fuck out now.”

Lance makes an offended noise. “This is my room, asswipe,” he says, but he’s already reaching for Keith’s face, already pulling him back in …

… and they kiss, and kiss again, open-mouthed and messy, two young men in another deep-space hotel room. Lance’s hands work the tie out of Keith’s hair, twisting in it as it spills over his neck, and knowing it’s _those_ hands, those beautiful piano hands, is doing things to Keith’s head and heartrate. His own hands fumble for Lance’s tie again, pulling him in close; his grip is so hard he feels the fabric cutting into his fingers.

They break apart again, Keith biting his lip as he sees Lance swallow. Lance’s hands start undoing the buttons on Keith’s shirt and vest. He’s breathing fast, and his pupils are blown, his lips wet and half-open.

The pit of Keith’s stomach surges with heat, and his core tightens with remembered sensations, of working those muscles hard to ride Lance into the mattress.

His mouth goes dry with want.

Keith leans in, his nose brushing Lance’s neck. He can feel his pulse, fluttering beneath his skin. “Miss me?”

“Not particularly. I’m a busy guy.”

“Bullshit. You couldn’t keep your hands off me if you tried.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re not as irresistible as you think, you know.”

There’s a sweet excitement pumping in his veins, so thick he can feel it moving through him, and that is what makes him say, “Prove it.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

With nimble fingers, Keith undoes the knot in Lance’s tie, then grabs each of the loose ends and uses them to pull him in, kiss the heat of his mouth, and feel him kiss back, bewildered.

“Prove it,” Keith says again. They’re standing so close. The scent of him is flooding Keith’s senses. “That you mean it, when you say you don’t need to touch me.”

“That’s not what I—” Lance bites down on his retort mid-sentence. “Fine. What’re you thinking?”

“Let me tie you up.”

Blue eyes widen in real surprise.

_“What?”_

“Just the wrists.” He hates how breathless he sounds. “To keep those hands out of the way.”

Keith knows he can pull off _sultry_ if he tries. He looks up at Lance, through his eyelashes, bites down ever-so-softly on his bottom lip.

Lance swallows, pulse visibly throbbing in his throat. “All right. You’re on.”

They help each other out of their shirts, crisp fabric pushed from shoulders and falling, crumpled, to the ground. Lance’s bare chest makes Keith’s heart skip a beat; the image of it, spattered with Keith’s own cum, is still burned into his mind. Lance runs his hands down Keith’s sides, as if to rekindle some memories of his own; Keith’s back arches slightly, and Lance sighs.

Lance lies down on top of the bedspread; his stomach sinks down a little, emphasizing the dips of his ribs and hipbones. He’s muscled but lean, and it makes Keith’s body go hot, then cold.

“Look, one condition,” Lance says, as he lifts his arms above his head and brings his wrists together. “If you make off with my clothes or my wallet, consider yourself already dead.”

“Why the fuck would I need your wallet?”

Lance closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath. “Look, maybe a guy has some past trauma. Asking about it is kind of rude.”

He can’t help it. A grin spreads across his face. “Sounds like you had a good time.”

“Sounds like you should shut the fuck up or I’ll break your face.”

Lance glares, and Keith forces down bubbles of laughter.

“Just … get on with it, okay?”

It’s a little awkward – actually, it’s a lot awkward, as Keith kneels by the headboard, clumsily lashing Lance’s wrists together with Lance’s own red tie.

“Can you hurry up?”

“Shut up, Lance. I’m trying.”

“You really suck at this.”

“Lance, _shut up_.”

“Look at that, folks,” Lance snipes. “We found the one thing Keith Kogane doesn’t excel at: light bondage!”

Keith jabs his knee into Lance’s ribs, and with a yelp, he finally goes silent.

Finally, he’s managed to tie his wrists together, and bind them to one of the convenient cutouts in the headboard, that perfectly accommodates a few choice knots. “Too tight?” Keith asks, tracing the edge between the fabric and Lance’s skin with his finger.

“Nah,” says Lance, and his voice is _shuddery_. A delicious flame uncurls in Keith’s stomach.

“Should I … I mean.” He’s sure there’s a way to do this. He’s just terrible at it. “Uh, let me know if it starts to hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance grins. “The safe phrase is _sexy alien_.”

He feels a vein in his forehead twitch. “Will you please take this seriously?”

“I am being serious! Sexy alien, Keith. You hear it, you drop everything.”

It’s very tempting to just start choking Lance right now. That’s not the kind of thing they agreed on, Keith reminds himself, and settles for giving Lance a scathing look. “Fine.”

“Now repeat it, so I know you’ve got it.”

The shit-eating grin on Lance’s face is fucking prize-winning. It also makes him look disgustingly handsome. Keith wants to kiss it off his lips and swallow it. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Keith rolls his eyes and sighs. “Sexy alien,” he says, pushing his bangs out of his face, and smiles primly when spots of color appear high on Lance’s cheeks. “Satisfied?”

“Not even close,” Lance says hoarsely. “Okay. It’s go time.”

Finally. Keith sits back to admire his handiwork.

Every inch of Lance’s long body is laid out in front of him. The elevated position of his toned arms throws his shoulder muscles into sharper relief. His legs are slender, lanky; Keith is amazed at the length of his thighs, the definition of his calves, and – oh shit. His mouth actually starts to water.

He’s a leg man. Maybe. So what?

Then there are the small, brown nipples, the suggestion of abs under smooth, dark skin so unblemished Keith hardly believes his eyes, and the trail of feathery hair that disappears inside his shorts. They’re all he’s still wearing.

A shiver passes through Lance. Probably a chill.

Well. Keith will have him warmed up soon enough.

He straddles him. Loves the familiarity of that body between his thighs, the way the breath rushes out of Lance as Keith’s weight settles on top of him. He leans in for a kiss, that Lance meets with teeth and tongue.

Keith lets the kiss linger at the corner of Lance’s mouth, whispering, “Remember, look but don’t touch.”

“Stop trying to be funny,” Lance says, weakly. “It’s another thing you suck at.” Keith grins, despite himself.

He sits back, planting his weight firmly on Lance’s crotch.

Lance grunts, and Keith shifts his ass around a little, getting comfortable. Lance quickly looks up at the ceiling.

This smile isn’t going to leave Keith’s face, is it?

He begins by trailing his fingers down Lance’s chest. Traces his collarbones, draws circles around his nipples, strokes down the little hills and valleys of his stomach muscles. All the while, he rocks his ass gently against Lance’s cock.

He leans in to kiss one of those nipples, swipe at it with his tongue, worry it with his teeth. It draws a sharp gasp from Lance, and – mm – the creeping stiffness down below begins to solidify into something Keith can work with.

Keith swirls his tongue around his hardened nipple one last time, then sits back on Lance’s crotch. All the breath hisses out of him, and Keith begins to move his hips in controlled circles, working up a friction between their bodies.

“Good, hmm?”

Lance makes a low noise, presumably of agreement.

Keith runs his hands up the tops of his own thighs. He trails them up his stomach, his pecs, a mirror image of what he did to Lance. And Lance is staring. _Good._ He tangles his fingers in his own hair, soft and thick and wild, then throws back his head and grinds into Lance _harder_.

This time, Lance _whimpers_.

Satisfaction glows in the pit of Keith’s belly, warm and red.

“Don’t you want to touch me, Lance?”

He glances at him through half-lidded eyes, drags his fingers through his hair and down his neck, and Lance screws his eyes shut, shakes his head stubbornly.

But he’s hard now. Keith can feel it, even through his clothes.

“It would feel good,” Keith murmurs, sliding open palms down his sides this time, “if it were you.”

Lance’s heart is galloping now. Every beat resonates through Keith’s own body.

Slow, deliberate, he unzips his pants, lets one hand dip inside. He palms at his own dick, and can’t stop the breathy moan that slips from him. He’s half-hard too, more sensitive than he thought.

“Your hands, on me,” he whispers, and – fuck, he’s turning himself on. He imagines Lance’s hands, his beautiful long fingers, on his skin, in his mouth, around his dick. He stares at them, lashed together over Lance’s head. At the moment, those fingers are curled in toward his palms – no, digging into them; his fists are clenched, as if he’s trying to maintain a grip on his resolve.

Lance bites his lip hard, thrusts his hips up. Keith’s embarrassed at how fast a gasp escapes him.

Lance notices it too, and smirks.

Keith’s eyes narrow. He climbs off of Lance, tucking his body in neatly between his legs instead. He plants one hand on each of his knees, and spreads his thighs apart.

He’s convinced he has the best view of the two of them: Lance stretched out and slack-jawed, gazing down his own body at Keith. His heart gives a hard thump.

He reaches out, starts massaging Lance’s cock through his underwear. This time, Lance moans out loud, breath coming rapid under Keith’s continued ministrations.

“Are you clean?” Keith asks, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, the raggedness in his voice like fingers running down Keith’s spine. “But if you don’t wanna risk it, I have condoms—”

“No,” Keith interrupts him. “I like it better this way.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Lance’s ears flush scarlet. “Oh. Okay, then.”

Keith shrugs his shoulders. “Also, if it turns out you’re lying, I’ll hunt you down and stab you in the balls.”

Lance chuckles, breathless. “Yeah, sounds fair.”

“Deal,” says Keith, and leans in to kiss Lance’s stomach.

The muscles tighten deliciously under his lips as he moves past Lance’s navel, to the dusting of hair beneath it. Arms looped around Lance’s thighs, he dips down between them, mouthing at the bulge and coaxing a soft moan out of Lance.

The fabric feels thick and a little dry against his tongue, except for a telltale wet spot, rapidly forming. Keith drags the flat of his tongue up Lance’s entire length.

“Do you want this?” he murmurs.

“Holy fuck,” Lance breathes. Keith glances up; Lance has thrown his head back, and his jaw is tense. His fists aren’t clenched anymore; instead, his fingers are stretching, then curling again, grabbing for something that isn’t there. The slightest bit of chafing redness is forming at his wrists. “Holy _fuck_.”

“Because I think you do. I think you’ll like it if I—”

Lance’s entire body jerks, like one of those involuntary shudders at the edge of sleep, and he wails, “Holy shit, just suck me off already!”

Keith smirks up at him. “Mm. But I’d love your fingers in my hair.”

Lance turns his face away. “Shut up, Kogane.”

Keith dips his fingers under Lance’s waistband, gently tugging his boxers down his legs. Lance lifts his hips to help him, and as Keith rucks the garment the rest of the way down his calves, he finds himself transfixed by Lance’s now-liberated dick. It curves against his stomach, dark and swollen, in need of attention.

Yeah. He can help with that.

“You all right?” he asks, tearing his eyes away to meet Lance’s blue ones.

His throat bobs. “Yeah, I’m fine.” And he wriggles a little. Impatient.

Good. So is Keith.

He leans in, giving the shaft an experimental lick. Lance moans, his lower body twisting – and if that’s not encouraging, hell knows what is.

Keith kisses the head a few times, teases the delicate foreskin with his tongue. The sweet mewling sounds Lance is making wash over him in lovely waves.

He encircles the base with his fingers, glances up from under his eyelashes, and slips the head inside his mouth. Keith turns his head, just slightly; it makes his cheek distend a little, and when he looks up to meet Lance’s eyes—

“Oh my fucking god.” Lance’s voice is trembling. His brow is creased, his body quaking – and oh, _stars_ , he looks wrecked, he looks incredible, and Keith could just eat him right up.

So he does.

It’s one of the wettest, messiest blowjobs of his life, and he loves every second of it. The weight of Lance on his tongue; the heady, musky salt of him; the throb of a vein against his lips. And, oh, his silky thighs on either side of Keith’s head, their heat and slickness, the way they tense when Keith digs his fingers into Lance’s hips to stop him from thrusting up, the little shivers Keith can feel deep inside them as he licks and kisses and teases and hums. All the while, Lance is gasping, keening – “ _Fuck_ , Keith, fuck fuck fuck …” – and Keith is grateful that his bangs help hide his flush.

There’s a heaviness deep in his gut, getting hotter and more restless with Lance’s every whimper. And Lance is moaning, “Shit, oh shit, that’s good, so good, so – mmm,” words trailing off into a wordless whine.

Keith reaches up, rakes his nails down Lance’s sides, and Lance bucks so hard Keith feels tears spring up at the corners of his eyes. But he also feels full and content with Lance’s cock in his mouth, Lance’s scent surrounding him. He inhales deeply through his nose, inches Lance slowly into his throat – and that’s really all it takes.

There’s a broken cry as Lance comes, all at once, and Keith digs his fingers into the flesh of Lance’s ass, and takes all of it.

He isn’t sure why he likes it so much. It’s one of those things he figures he doesn’t need to explain.

When the tremors wracking Lance’s lower body finally die down, Keith lets his dick slip from his mouth, a thin strand of saliva escaping with it. He swallows down the remainder of the taste on his tongue. It’s not bad, and it’s not pleasant; it’s just _Lance_. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then smirks, bites Lance’s thigh and kisses the spot.

Lance squeezes his eyes shut. “Shit.”

“Sexy alien time?” Keith teases, ignoring his own dick, throbbing between his legs.

“Shit,” Lance repeats. “Yeah.”

His eyelids are fluttering. His eyelashes are so long. His delicate nostrils are flared, his lips parted.

_So fucking attractive._

Keith drapes himself over Lance, kisses his neck. He smells so good. Even the slight tang of the sweat he’s worked up smells good to Keith, right then. He runs a hand down his side, revels in his gorgeous body and—

“You might wanna hurry up,” Lance mumbles, “because I really need to touch you now.”

For one split second, all the blood in Keith’s body rushes to his cock. He honestly thinks he blacks out for a second.

“Uh, yeah.”

Such eloquence.

His hands are shaking. He has it bad.

He fumbles with his own knots, tight now, from Lance’s movements. Finally the tie pulls free, and Lance brings his arms down in relief, rubbing at his chafed wrists. “Shit,” he breathes. Then he looks up at Keith, his blue eyes glowing. “Who made you so goddamn hot?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs the back of Keith’s neck and yanks him down. Their teeth clack together; Lance regroups, pulls back just slightly, then dives in again, tongue pushing in, playful and rough.

_Can he taste himself on me?_

“Why,” Lance says, against Keith’s lips, kissing them swollen, “are you,” and his arm cinches around Keith’s waist, tugs him close so that their bodies are flush against one another, “this,” kiss, “fucking,” kiss, “sexy?”

 _I don’t know,_ Keith thinks, with a strange sort of honesty, dizzy from Lance’s bruising mouth on his. _Keep kissing me, and maybe you’ll find out._

He snakes his arms around Lance’s neck, rubs his body against him, shamelessly. He’s hard; he grinds his crotch against Lance’s thigh, moaning at the pressure. “Touch me,” he breathes. “I need it, Lance.”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “So, you are in fact too hot for me to keep my hands off. You win. Jackpot. Happy?”

“No,” Keith whines, rubbing up harder. “You’re not _doing_ it, asshole.”

“Fine.” Lance pulls himself into a sitting position. His gaze flickers up and down Keith’s body. “Take those off,” he says, then pats his lap. “C’mere.”

Keith doesn’t have to be told twice.

He drops his pants, then his shorts, the cool air brushing the oversensitive tip of his dick. After kicking his clothes to the floor, he starts to climb into Lance’s lap, but—

“This way,” Lance murmurs, taking Keith by the shoulders and turning him around.

So when Keith finally sits down, it’s facing away from Lance, staring out the window at an endless expanse of stars.

Lance’s arms wrap around his waist. His breath fans against Keith’s shoulder.

Then Keith feels his mouth, pressing to the junction between his shoulder and his neck. The kiss starts out wet, and—

“Ah!” he hisses, as Lance’s teeth sink into his skin. “Lance, fuck!”

He swears he feels those lips smirk.

Lance’s arms reach up from where they’re wrapped around his waist, and his hands spread out over his pecs. Keith allows himself to lean into Lance – melt against the bare skin of his chest, hot and dewy with a film of sweat. Keith feels the shape of his cock, tantalizingly near the curve of his ass. He has a flash of memory, of sinking down onto it, inch by sweet inch, fucking himself stupid.

Keith glances down, sees his own dick flushed and heavy between his thighs. He shifts his hips restlessly, swears he sees it give an impatient twitch.

Lance’s hands on his skin. He feels his heart stutter.

From the minute he’d seen them caressing those keys, he’s wanted to feel them on his body, wanted them to play him, make him sing. He’s not sure what it is about Lance, why he evokes such a response in Keith, but he does know he’s beyond saving.

“Do it, then,” he says, between gritted teeth.

Lance’s hands slide down his body slowly, and Keith is captivated. His hands are slim and brown, long-fingered, with perfect, oval nails. Keith’s heartbeat fans into his arms, his legs, his fingers; he feels it thudding at his hairline and the soles of his feet.

“Damn,” Lance breathes into Keith’s ear, as his fingers trace the lines of Keith’s abs. His warm breath is on Keith’s cheek, and then, all at once, he’s taken Keith’s earlobe between his teeth – nibbles at it, then sucks it into his mouth.

Keith’s body seizes against him. Fuck, he’s so sensitive. He feels like his nerves are on the outside of his skin.

Lance’s touch is so gentle. The pads of his fingers slip over Keith’s skin in exploratory patterns. Keith can’t help but stare at those hands on his body. This image is going to haunt his fucking dreams. He’s breathing hard, and clutches at Lance’s thigh, digs his nails in to encourage him.

And shit—

_Finally—_

Lance’s fingers wrap around his dick.

Keith shudders, the range of his perception narrowing to Lance and only Lance.

Lance starts up a rhythm, and it’s not long before he finds one that has Keith’s hips rolling, wordless noises tumbling from his lips. His other hand quests playfully, brushes over Keith’s nipples, fondles his balls. The edges of Keith’s mind are _glowing_.

His body is moving on its own, now; there’s nothing he can do to stop the straining of his pelvis into Lance’s grip. He squirms in his arms, and, oh, the feel of skin on skin is too _much_ …

He leans his head back against Lance’s shoulder, exposing his tender neck. Lance bites it, soothes the spot with a few choice kisses, then moves up to kiss Keith’s half-open mouth. All Keith can do is moan.

There’s a breathy chuckle in his ear, and then Lance presses two fingers to the spot between Keith’s entrance and his balls. Keith twists violently, making one of the most undignified noises of his life, and the pressure only increases – has him writhing.

Lance’s hands are pushing him, ever so gently, toward the edge of a cliff. Keith keens, feels his lower body melting, hips moving in helpless stutters. Sensation is cresting in him; he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t—

_“Ahh—!”_

He cries out as he spills into Lance’s hand, pleasure washing through him in wave upon wave upon wave.

And he grows heavy. Content.

When Keith comes back to himself, the first thing he sees is Lance’s cum-covered hand. He has half a mind to lick it off his fingers, but Lance, armed with a tissue, gets there first.

Afterward, they lie breathing hard, Keith wrapped in Lance’s arms. He angles for a kiss, half expecting Lance to turn his face away. Instead, their mouths meet wetly, and Lance’s teeth catch on Keith’s lip. The sting feels messy, real, and Keith briefly sucks Lance’s bottom lip into his mouth, bites back before letting go. The kiss breaks naturally, and for a few moments, noses touching, they just breathe each other’s air.

“Nice,” Lance whispers. Keith swallows the lump in his throat.

They stare at each other for a suspended moment. They’re both too fucked out to think of anything to say. The moment stretches into several long and quiet minutes.

“Okay,” Lance says finally, voice a little dry. “We’re not having a fucking slumber party, so you can leave now.”

“Tired?” Keith smirks, and Lance – that brat – actually smacks him with a pillow.

“Just get out.”

“Fine.” Keith swings his legs out of bed, starts gathering up his clothes from the floor. As he’s balancing on one leg, tugging his suit pants back on, he feels Lance’s eyes on him and looks up. Lance is lying on his stomach, cheek smooshed against the sheets, eyelids heavy. Watching Keith.

No.

Checking him out.

“You know,” Lance says, “you’re awfully pretty, for someone with such a shit personality.”

The tips of Keith’s ears get hot. “Hm. I wish I could say we had that in common.”

Lance makes an offended noise, but there’s amusement in the curve of his mouth. This way, caught in afterglow, something about him seems … soft. Keith has an uncomfortably familiar feeling – a feeling that the Lance he’s looking at now is a Lance he might not despise with unbridled passion.

This Lance is annoying. He’s snarky. He’s a deliberate pain in the ass.

But he’s real.

Keith buttons his pants. He slips his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. He doesn’t bother buttoning his vest or retying his tie, just wraps it around his hand and throws his suit jacket on over his rumpled ensemble. Anyone who sees him on the trek back to his own room will know he’s been worked over good. He doesn’t really give a fuck.

“So,” comes Lance’s sleepy voice, from the bed. “Is this a thing now?”

Keith’s pulse picks up. A single thought fills him, raw and unfiltered: _I want you. Again and again and—_

“… do you want it to be a thing?”

A smile. “Hmm. Like I said, you _are_ awfully pretty. For an asshole.”

The corner of Keith’s lips quirks up. “Well,” he says. “I have your number.”

“Mm. You sure do, cowboy.” Lance yawns, throwing an arm over his face with dramatic flair. “Now get lost.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Night, then.”

“Toodles,” Lance calls, as Keith slips out and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Lance can’t sleep.

He’s too restless. Every time he starts to drift off, he becomes acutely aware of his own heartbeat, ticking in his chest.

Finally, he’s had enough.

He gets out of bed, changes into the boxers he brought for tomorrow. He slips back into his clothes and cursorily pulls his fingers through his mussed-up hair. _Yeah, wide awake._

He shoves his feet into his shoes and wanders into the hallway. His entire face is still tingling, from the memory of Keith’s lips. Every touch feels like a lipstick stain – smeared all over Lance’s body, obvious to anyone who cares to look.

Old habits die hard. Lance takes the elevator up to the sky bar. If nothing else, its panoramic view of the surrounding star-scape might help calm him down.

The place is fairly empty, but a few tables are occupied by people talking in soft voices. There’s a singer on the small round stage in the corner, filling the room with smoky music in a language alien to Lance’s ears. Lance orders something from the bartender, who has four arms. Seems convenient.

The drink is made from a sweet, orange alien fruit. It tastes like afterglow. Like lips tracing hickeys on his skin.

His eyelids flutter shut. He sips his drink, listening to the music and imagining how he’d improvise the tune on the piano. He wonders idly if Hunk did manage to win big tonight.

When he opens his eyes again, there is someone leaning against the bar. Watching him.

It’s him – the slender Galra from earlier. He’s ditched the armpieces, and seems to be alone.

And interested.

_I knew it._

“Can I help you?”

The man blinks. “Just looking for conversation. If you’re not busy.”

Lance looks into the Galra’s face – and damn, it’s a good face, too. The ears, chin, nose, even the corners of the luminous yellow eyes – they’re all tapered, and somehow delicate. It’s unusual, for a Galra; the ones Lance has seen have all been robust, while this man is … elfin.

He taps his foot against the barstool. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

“Hmm. A friend. If you’ll allow it.” The voice is silky. He has poise. Lance is a little impressed, despite himself.

The Galra tilts his head to the side; there’s something avian about the gesture, and it makes Lance want to preen. He wonders if the man can smell sex still on him. Wonders if he likes it.

His body tingles. _Sexy alien, indeed._

“Hey, look, I’ve already been picked up tonight. I’m going right back to my room and crashing after this drink.” Lance shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Oh. Was I being forward?” Slanted yellow eyes meet Lance’s.

“Not really.” Lance gives him the world’s most obvious once-over, gaze cruising his body from head to toe. “But I was.”

“Ah.” And that’s amusement. His voice has a serrated edge, underneath the honey. “Well, would you like some company? Until you finish your drink.”

“All right.” Lance crosses one leg over the other, the motion languid, and the Galra’s eyes follow it, trailing up his calf and thigh. “The name’s Lance, by the way.”

The Galra smiles. His canines are slim and pointed, like the rest of him.

“Hello, Lance. Pleased to meet you.”

 

* * *

  

The next morning doesn’t feel like much of a morning at all. The Castle is suspended in the middle of space, and business is always booming, the lights always low. Keith scarfed a massive plate of bacon and eggs for breakfast, but that’s about it for early-hours ritual.

Now, Keith and Shiro are in the bay, waiting for the attendant to bring their shuttle. He’s tired from a long night in a busy venue, hazy with the memory of amazing sex.

He’d do it again, do _him_ again, as many times as he wanted.

The place is bustling with ships, coming and going. He doesn’t have a hangover, but he’s in a sort of daze, where outside noises only seem to intrude.

Keith stretches, noticing the tension in his spine. He twists just slightly, to try and crack it—

And he swears there’s a flash at the corner of his eye.

Too-quick. Deliberate.

Deepest, inky black.

It’s like a knife to the guts. And Keith meets blade with blade.

He reacts quicker than he can think, his own knife’s cloth-wrapped handle in his grip in a split second, point quivering and angry.

Shiro’s big hand is on Keith’s shoulder, then, warmth seeping through the fabric of his awful suit jacket, so constraining when Keith needs to be able to move, run, always run.

“Keith, put the knife down.”

Shiro’s voice is the only one he hears, through a distant hubbub; it adds, not to him, “You don’t need security. He’s all right. I’ve got him.”

He’s not all right. His arm is trembling, vision whiting out at the edges. His flight instinct, long-fought and long-tamed, rears its skittish head inside him.

It was just a flash. But something is _wrong_. Keith _knows_ there is.

Shiro’s strong fingers have pushed his trembling arm down, made it sink back to his side.

“Keith, calm down.” A warning in his tone, but no judgment.

His peripheral vision is clear again. The feeling of dread, gone.

He’s acting insane.

It’s accepted that most of the Castle’s clientele is armed. In turn, the clientele is expected to know when and where they can remind others of this fact. It’s the reason Shiro’s allowed inside, even though his arm is technically classed as a weapon. It’s the reason Keith can keep his knife. The one he just started waving around in thin air.

He can feel eyes on him. Harmless eyes, this time, but all the more scathing for it. Keith swallows, tucks the knife back inside its sheath.

He knows his name is what’s protecting him from being hauled off in handcuffs.

There’s a limit, though. Acting this unstable is definitely toeing that limit.

They get into their shuttle. Keith senses Shiro’s comforting presence at his back, although, thankfully, he doesn’t give him a boost or anything.

As they settle into plush black seats, and the slim silver ship takes off, Shiro frowns at Keith in concern.

After all Shiro’s been through, he’s the one worrying about Keith.

It makes him so angry with himself.

“Shiro, I’m fine.”

“You know you can talk to me.”

“Yeah, and if something was wrong, I would. Except there isn’t.”

“You just felt you needed to make a … point?” There’s a grin tugging at the corner of Shiro’s mouth that evaporates at Keith’s uncomprehending stare, and he sighs. “Keith, really. This isn’t you.”

Keith glares at his own feet, can’t look at Shiro right now.

Because it is him. It’s the essence of who he is.

He can’t tell Shiro he feels stalked, the way he did on the streets, when Madame Kogane’s people first caught wind of him. _Caught_ him.

That stint ended well for Keith, but it might as well not have.

He’s stronger now. He’s deadly. Whatever’s stalking him won’t find him and walk away unscathed.

But he hates it – even here, inside the cushioned comfort of the shuttle, feeling like he’s always half an inch away from jumping out of his own skin.

_Calm down. Distract yourself._

It goes against every instinct he has, but he can’t stay tense like a wire, or he’ll snap.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath in, and …

_… sweet moans between thin lips, long brown thighs …_

_Fuck_. He jerks back to reality.

Is this Keith’s life now? Caught between impending loss of sanity and Lance fucking Álvarez?

When he thinks about it, he’s not sure there’s a difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so fuckening long to produce and i would LOVE to know what you thought of it! ;u; leave a comment here or find me on tumblr:  
> [main](http://cloudstrifing.tumblr.com)  
> [voltron side](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com)
> 
> i reply to everything!! :) and thanks, guys, for being patient. more, eventually. xoxo!!!


	4. Fuchsia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a date, and a little bit of bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things.
> 
> first: check out the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4?si=s-wlXpnpRz6IiDz_-wwYQQ) if you want to see what's inspired me while writing this, or if you want some bg music. (song recs are greatly appreciated, btw!!)  
> some important ones this time:  
> Nights Of Love -- Papa Roach  
> Small Doses -- Bebe Rexha
> 
> second: if you were already reading this fic, you'll know that i originally had lance's surname as mcclain. as you may also know, there's been some Discourse™ about that, and after reading up on it, i've decided to remove mcclain from my fics and opt for a different placeholder (since vld lance doesnt have an official surname). feel free to message me if you're curious about why! :)
> 
> third: lancelot. yeah, it's happening. and yeah, season 3 might come along and render this entire fic obsolete forever, but meh, who cares. i'm just doing my take on it. you know. for fun. (EDIT: nvm, i nailed him. lol)
> 
> which, speaking of: i know there's a lot of content floating around out there that isn't everyone's cup of tea -- i've definitely seen a lot that isn't mine -- but you **will not see romanticizing of abuse or any of that jazz in this fic**. as my friend so aptly put it: 'u can put a disclaimer before the chapter like "fyi this is consensual lancelot and not something creepy or weird. LANCE WANTS THE ALIEN DICK JUST LIKE ME EYOOO."' AND UH... there's no fucking lie here, so yeah, there's your disclaimer. that's what u can expect. brb im going to go die now skdgjsdg
> 
> have fun!!!!!!!!

It’s been nagging at him this entire time.

After Lance went back to his hotel room and crawled between the sheets, the conversation with the handsome Galra stayed on his mind until the moment he drifted to sleep. And when he woke up, Keith’s scent still lingering in the air around him, he remembered it all over again.

 

* * *

 

_“So. Before you head back.”_

_Lance is so caught in the glow of those yellow eyes, in the spotlight they offer just for him. “Mm?”_

_“Could I buy you your next drink?” Man, what is it with these British aliens? “Another time?”_

_A finger of excitement trails down Lance’s spine, sending ripples through his insides. He taps his foot against the stool, pretends to consider. Who is he kidding? His mind is already made up, already filled with fantasies of his hands dragging through long white hair._

_“Hmm, well. If you take me somewhere nice.”_

_Thin lips flicker into a smile. “I promise.”_

_“Then we have a deal.”_

_They stare at each other for a few more seconds._

_“So … what do I call you? Besides handsome?”_

If he says Daddy, dump him, _advises Lance’s inner Pidge._

_There’s a brief and pregnant pause._

_“Lotor,” the Galra says._

_Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. “Huh.” He waits for commentary, but when none comes, he says, “Common name?”_

_The namesake of Zarkon’s son, Prince and heir to the Galra Kingdom, shrugs his shoulders and blinks slowly._

_He’s so hot. Looking at him makes Lance feel like he’s watching a knife balanced on its tip. It has his stomach clenching, expecting it to topple over, to disappoint him, but the image stays the same. Sharp and eerie and impossibly pleasing._

_No confirmation. No denial._

_Lance slides off the barstool and stands up._

_“All right, then. Guess I’ll see you around, Lotor.”_

_“I’ll be looking forward to it, Lance.”_

 

* * *

 

And it just keeps _bothering_ him. It’s dumb. But he has to know.

When he gets home the next morning, slouched on his living room couch – face mask and lion slippers on, legs languidly thrown across the armrest – he runs a search for _Prince Lotor._

He gets nothing. Just an encyclopedia article confirming that Prince Lotor is the son of King Zarkon, monarch of the Galra. Common knowledge. The only photo is of a batlike emblem, some sort of royal crest. Useless.

So, apparently, the Galra aren’t big on celebrity coverage.

Next, he finds a journal article – _Galra: Study of a People_ – that mentions names and lineages only in passing. Lance skims it, but it mostly seems to underline what he already knows: that the Galra are reclusive, that they keep to their own tightly regulated sector of space, that no one knows much about their culture simply because no one is _welcome_.

Frowning, Lance gestures to flick off the holoscreen, and it vanishes into thin air.

There’s no way.

Maybe Lotor isn’t even his real name. Shouldn’t a prince have better things to do than skirt chasing? Maybe he’s some nobody who gets off on pretending, dropping implications, and playing coy.

That’s more likely than it actually being him, right?

The thing is, though, that if anyone understands what it’s like to have your name and reputation always doing half the work for you, it’s Lance. He can’t blame anyone for wanting to get away from that, take refuge in the illusion of anonymity. Meaning, he wouldn’t be able to stand himself if he just _asked_.

Lance thinks about the smell of money. The composure. The cultured voice.

The long fucking fairy-tale hair.

No. It _can’t_ be him.

Can it?

 

* * *

 

It’s tempting to think about the fact that he was flirting with someone who might be, but probably, most definitely isn’t, the Galra Prince. The itch stays at the edge of his mind, like a mosquito bite he knows he shouldn’t be scratching.

Luckily for Lance, he has plenty of distractions. Not least because he keeps having sex with Keith.

Keith’s legs around his waist, Keith’s hips grinding into him, Keith’s groans in his ear – it’s kind of funny how quickly those things can make Lance forget how much he hates him.

Disliking Keith has been second-nature for so long. There’s the tension between their families, for one – Madame Kogane’s carefully brokered alliances, her meticulously engineered monopolies, constantly getting in the way of Álvarez trading rights. And Keith’s ornery disposition made a convenient second excuse. There was never any reason to do anything _but_ despise him.

And still, they come together. Over and over. In secret places, they fall into each other’s arms.

And Lance _likes_ it. So much more than he should.

They do it so often Lance breaks protocol. He can keep up the sassy act during a one night stand, but by the fourth, sixth, eighth time Keith’s hands roam his body, not being honest with himself is only doing _him_ a disfavor.

Honestly, at this point, there is no more point.

No point in denial, in pretense, in façade.

The truth is, he likes cuddling after. He likes wet kisses on the neck. He likes to feel Keith’s nails digging into his back.

He likes to make Keith gasp. It has a deep satisfaction suffusing his gut, gold and molten.

He likes the way Keith’s eyebrows crinkle when he’s annoyed or confused, any time Lance pushes his buttons – like he doesn’t know what he did to end up here, or why he doesn’t mind.

He’s not sure how he feels about the way Keith looks at him, though. It makes him feel peeled and raw and uncomfortably real. Makes him want to pin Keith down and ask him, _What are you looking for?_

Makes him hope he doesn’t find it.

* * *

 

_“Do you want it to be a thing?”_

He’d lamented how stupid those words sounded, couldn’t stop kicking himself mentally as he punched the lumps out of his pillow in his bed at home. So many years have passed, and twenty-three–year–old Keith is still as uselessly tongue-tied as high school Keith.

But he guesses his clumsiness doesn’t matter. Because it does become a thing.

It’s sporadic. They don’t have special times or places. Keith will call or text – _Tonight_ , he’ll say, black on white, never as a question. And Lance will either shoot back a rejection, some hastily scribbled reason he can’t meet up, or an address and a room number.

Eventually, the excuses grow fewer and further between.

And Lance never shows up late again.

And, stars, Keith _wants_. He stares at Lance from the bed, while he’s undressing painfully slow, or when he gets up to go to the bathroom – stares at the smooth vee shape of his hips and shoulders, at his collarbones, at his cute round ass.

Keith wants to get his dick wet.

His throat closes up just from thinking about it.

Lance hasn’t let Keith fuck him. Yet. He hasn’t brought it up, hoping it might happen naturally, but it hasn’t. Yet.

So after getting dicked so thoroughly into oblivion Keith is pretty sure he sobbed, he feels justified in asking, “Do you always top?”

Lance, leaning against the headboard, blinks. He glances down at Keith, who’s lying on his stomach, sheets tangled around his waist.

“Nah.”

“Huh.” Keith’s heart is acting up like a fucking jackhammer, but his voice somehow remains level. A miracle, when every fantasy he’s ever had of Lance face down and ass up is flashing before his eyes. “That’s a surprise. You’ve been pretty insistent about it.”

Lance hesitates for a second. “Okay, look. That’s just because it was you.”

Keith scoffs. “Seriously? If this is some macho bullshit, you can shove it where—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get the gist.” He bites his lower lip. Keith’s stomach somersaults. “But notice how I said _was_.”

Holy shit.

“So … you do want it.” He swears he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Definitely not so breathlessly.

“I’m getting used to the idea. God, can you chill for like two seconds?”

“You want me,” Keith growls, low in his throat, realization suffusing his body in sweet waves. He reaches for Lance, pulls him in. Lance’s body goes slack like a ragdoll, and he lets Keith cover his neck in kisses. That permission turns Keith on. “You want me in you.”

“Geez.” Lance’s voice is trembling. Keith wants to eat him up. “You’re presumptuous.”

There’s no revulsion in his tone, only petulance. It’s a relief, sure, but so _frustrating_. _Lance_ is frustrating. Infuriating. Ridiculously proud. Keith wants to feel that pride melt into bliss around him.

“Let me fuck you,” he mumbles, into Lance’s shoulder. Bites it, gently, and nuzzles the spot. “I wanna fuck you, Lance.”

Lance lets out a breathy sigh. “Not today, cowboy.”

Keith perks up at that – at the implied promise of _another day_ , something hungry taking root in his stomach.

And Lance smirks. “Hmm. Knew you were staring at my ass that time.”

The slightest flush works its way into Keith’s cheeks. “Do you ever shut up?”

“If I have a reason,” Lance murmurs, eyes glued to Keith’s lips.

And Keith reaches for him, and all at once they’re kissing again, wet and deep – not fighting, now, just melding together. Lance makes a pleased noise and shifts his body closer. Keith hooks an arm around his waist, and Lance’s hands run down his chest and sides as his tongue probes Keith’s mouth.

It’s good. Almost as good as it is weird.

The weirdest part of all, though, is that sometimes they actually _talk_. When Keith thinks about it, it’s downright bizarre: the two of them, who only used to have glares and insults to spare for each other, twined together in bed and having a fucking chat.

“So, do you do this often?” Lance asks, his tone so smarmy and sticky it could catch flies.

“What?”

“I’m asking if you take a lot of dick. Are you secretly a little slut, wonder boy?”

“You mean like you?”

“Mhmm.”

“Who knows? Maybe you should stop projecting.”

“But maybe I like what I see.”

“Ugh. I am so close to strangling you.”

“Ooh, but I might like it. And then where will we be?”

Keith rolls his eyes, hates that he feels the tug of a budding smile.

“No, really, I’m curious.” Lance brushes Keith’s hair away from his neck, presses his lips to the tendon. “Who were you doing in high school? You little studmuffin, you.”

He’s not sure why it makes him feel so awkward, all of a sudden. “No one.”

Lance abruptly pauses his ministrations. “Wait, what?” Disbelieving edge to his voice.

Keith cups Lance’s head and presses it closer to his neck, encouraging. He likes the soft fanning of Lance’s breath against his skin, but his kisses are even better. “Like I said, no one.”

_Shut up about this and kiss me again._

“What? No way. We’re both talking about the same Keith Kogane? Mr. Popular? A _virgin_?”

“I guess?”

Lance whistles. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve met an honest Unilu.”

“Well, I have met an honest Unilu.” Lance knees him, mutters _show-off_. “And I was.”

“Holy shit,” Lance breathes. “That means I beat you at something.”

“How is that—” Keith bites down on his irritation. “It’s not a competition.”

“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” Lance’s fingers trace circles over Keith’s ribs. “When’d you lose it?”

“Are you serious?”

“I know, I know, virginity is a social construct, blah blah blah. I’m not as dumb as I look.” His blue eyes gleam with curiosity. “But you _gotta_ tell me. When did you first get nailed?”

“Maybe I was doing the nailing.”

“Does it look like I care?”

“Fine. I was twenty-one.”

Lance makes a noise like a half-choked screech. “ _What_? But you’re so—”

Even he can feel how smug his grin is. “Yes?”

“—I mean, look at you. I mean people were all over you. I was sure they were. They should have been.”

“Hmm. Is that a compliment?” He smiles, looks up through his eyelashes. Trails a lazy finger down Lance’s chest.

The tips of Lance’s ears flush pink. “Shut up. _Seriously_ , though?”

“Yeah. Why is that so strange? I’m gay. It took me that long to find a guy I was comfortable with. It could have taken me another five years. If it had, who cares?”

“You’re right. God, I _know_ you’re right.” Lance groans. “I guess I was just in a hurry. Kinda desperate to get laid.”

Keith smirks. “Past tense?”

“Hey. You thirst for my dick like a dude living in the desert. You don’t get to make fun of me for this.”

“Fine. I just don’t see why you care so much.”

“I need to know what I’m up against, don’t I?” He says it jokingly, but the way he swallows is so thick Keith wonders if it surprises even Lance. “So, who’d you do?”

And Keith wonders if Lance is thinking about Shiro, the way Keith is thinking about Shiro, with a familiar, now-dulled throb in his heart – an echo of being seventeen and wanting what he couldn’t have. His feelings have changed – he’s changed – but the memory hasn’t. “Growing out of it” is a scab he doesn’t pick at.

He remembers his actual first, instead. A shock of dark bangs and a lopsided smile, sweaty skin and rough hands.

“He worked for us. We used to spar together.”

He’s not used to talking about it. His voice doesn’t sound like his, the hum of it too real in his chest.

“He was younger than me. He told me he’d sucked dick for money once, and said he was a natural. I only realized later he was baiting me. I just told him to prove it.”

A soft humming noise, from Lance. “You like doing that, hmm?”

In response, Keith grabs Lance’s thigh, kneads it between his fingers. “Could be.”

“Well,” says Lance, voice unsteady. “Was he any good?”

“Thought so, at the time.”

Lance’s grip tightens on Keith’s ribs. He sucks an earlobe into his mouth, nibbles playfully before letting go. “You should have higher standards now.” His fingers slide down Keith’s belly, brush through the curls between his legs, the slightest pressure just above his cock sending pleasure skittering through his entire abdomen.

“Mmm. You’re right. Guess I’ll leave.”

“Rude,” Lance murmurs.

Keith grabs Lance’s chin and kisses him on the mouth. A breathy gasp falls from Lance’s lips, and he reciprocates, wet and eager, before taking Keith’s hand in his. He kisses Keith’s knuckles first, then licks two of Keith’s fingers, slips both of them into his mouth, and sucks them soft and teasing. Keith’s breathing quickens, and he moves his hand a little, in and out, enraptured by the full expression on Lance’s face, the warm wetness, being _in_ him – until Lance pulls away, leaving Keith’s fingers slick.

Lance stares at him, as if in challenge, as if daring him to beg. And although he’s well aware of how much he wants those lips wrapped around him, Keith isn’t going to give in. _Not today._ He collects the scraps of his self-control, and asks, “What about you?”

“What about me, baby?”

He ignores that. “When did you lose it? Interpret the social construct however you want.”

“I got my first handjob when I was fifteen.”

“Mm. Young.”

“Yeah. It was in a closet. A really big walk-in closet. I had someone else touch my junk surrounded by middle-aged people’s expensive coats. But never mind the backdrop – it was still seven minutes in heaven. Dumb kid party shenanigans.”

“‘Shenanigans’?”

“Shut up.”

“So, was it heaven?”

“It was very … teenage. Awkward.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah. I fucked a girl for real when I was sixteen.”

“Was it as classy?”

“We did it on her parents’ yacht.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Of course you did.”

“Hey, just telling it like it is. Didn’t kiss a boy ’til I was eighteen. But I never looked back.”

“From boys?”

“From flagrant bisexuality.”

“Ah. Got it.”

And Lance frowns. “We’re twenty-three now. That means I’ve had, like, eight years of practice, and you had what, two? How’d you get so damn good so fast?”

“You think I’m good?” Keith teases, nudging his butt against Lance’s thighs.

“You’re really doing this? You know I love your sweet ass.”

“And my cordial personality?”

“Don’t joke. It’s creepy when you do it.”

Keith just smiles.

“Fuck,” Lance mumbles. “Really. Why are you so good at _everything_?”

There’s a note of real frustration there, and Keith doesn’t like it, doesn’t want resentment spoiling the smirk he feels against his skin when Lance kisses him. So he turns in Lance’s arms, lets one hand glide from his neck to his shoulder, presses a chaste kiss to his closed lips.

“Does it matter?”

Lance’s gaze flickers, refusing to meet Keith’s. Fuck. So that didn’t come out right. What else is new in Keith’s life? He tries again.

“Does it matter when I’m all yours?”

And he grinds up gently against Lance’s leg, and hears Lance swallow; his lips part and his breathing turns rapid, and then he’s kissing Keith again, and Keith is full of satisfied warmth once more.

 

* * *

 

_Ready._

He props the rifle on his shoulder, feels its familiar weight in his grip.

_Aim._

Closes one eye. Zeroes in on the target.

_Fire._

Movement of fingers simultaneously reflexive and deliberate. The trigger squeezes, and a bang explodes from the barrel, muted through the covers on his ears.

Lance squints through his tinted visor, at the hole at the center of the target.

Clean shot.

He’s just lining up to shoot a second time when a soft pinging inside his ear protectors alerts him to an incoming call. “Accept,” Lance says, putting the safety back on the weapon and lowering it slowly.

“Hi, fuckass.” Pidge’s voice comes through, crisp as an early spring day.

“Hey, nerdomancer. What’s up?”

“I’m supposed to be working, but I’m on inventory duty today, so I keep sneaking off and watching the videos for my online course.”

“What was it again?”

“Gone Viral: Absurdism and Insight of Early 21st Century Memes.”

“You are shitting me.”

“Trust me, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.” Her voice is full of pure glee.

“Imagine that being what you spend your academic career on. Imagine being a meme scholar.”

“Dream job, honestly. These things age like a fine wine.”

“Or a fine _Vine_?” Lance says, and Pidge cackles. She has found a particular sort of hilarity in this vintage humor, and seizes every chance to share her niche history knowledge with Lance. He never thought he’d know so much intricate trivia about old jokes from the dawn of the internet, but then again, he never thought he’d be friends with a tech intern either. And while he does admit that Vines are an underrated and forgotten art form, he’s not sure how he feels about Pidge’s oath to bring back the Rickroll.

“Anyway, I’m kinda feeling up for movie night. Hunk said he’s probably free. We can play some VR games too, if you guys want. Maybe Voltron too.”

“Sorry,” Lance says. “While you know how much I value babysitting your dorky self—”

“Remember my dorky self can hack your apartment AI and make it refer to you exclusively as Lord of the Butt Munchers.”

“Oh, shut up. Like I was saying, while you know how much I love doing that, tonight isn’t gonna work.”

He feels his skin tingle as he says it. As he remembers yellow eyes and a fanged smirk. Lance swallows.

“Oh? You busy?”

“Yeah.” And, because he knows she’ll ask: “I, uh, I have a date.”

“Oh. Of coooourse.” Ugh. So knowing. “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

 _Lotor._ Namesake of the Galra Prince. Namesake. Must be. Right?

“Uh, probably not.”

“Well, feel free to not share any details whatsoever. I’m not being sarcastic. I don’t want to know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Gotcha.”

“You wanna grab a coffee or something though? I get off work at four.”

He glances at the holographic clock in the corner of his visor. “Uh, yeah, that works. I’m at the range right now.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

“Cool. See you soon.”

“See you. And, Lance?”

“What?”

“Gun.”

“That’s a meme, isn’t it? I know a fucking meme when I fucking hear one, Pidge—”

Pidge snickers, and promptly hangs up.

She is so weird.

He picks the rifle up, settles back into that special, still state of mind, and lines up his next shot. The range is the one place where he feels like himself. Even if he has nothing else to aim for in life, he knows how to hit a target swift and true. His world narrows to the rifle in his grip, the thunderclap of the shot through his ear protectors, the jerk of recoil jarring every joint in his arms – he’s prepared for all of it, and it feels like home.

He remembers Hunk’s voice, talking him down when he was bad, talking him _out_ of a fifth consecutive night of hardcore drinking.

_“Lance, come on. This isn’t you. Who ever heard of a drunk sharpshooter?”_

_“Shut up, Hunk.”_

_“Fine, whatever. But I remember the guy who could shoot three moving targets out of the air. He was pretty cool.”_

_“Then go hang out with him.”_

_“Wish I could, buddy.”_

He remembers realizing that his aim _was_ off. That he had one thing, one talent that no one could take away from him, and he was stealing it from himself.

Lance stopped partying so hard. Started hitting the gym. And eventually, his shots started hitting the bullseye again.

Maybe he isn’t a perfect golden boy, but he can at least feel proud of himself for this.

This, at least, he can do.

He stares down the scope. His hands don’t waver.

_Ready. Aim. Fire._

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Keith remembers just how lucky he’s been.

He knows _lucky_ isn’t the word most people would use to describe first being orphaned, then virtually kidnapped off the street – even if it did end with being instated as the successor to an old and esteemed family. But he could so easily have been snatched by groups with an entirely different agenda – who saw, in a glassy-eyed and desperate youth, potential very unlike an heir’s.

Did that make it right? No. But of the many wrongs in Keith’s short life, being made a Kogane was probably his favorite.

Later, Keith realizes that a lot of people hear the name Kogane and imagine a cold-hearted dragon lady draped in silks, a jeweled spider at the center of her far-reaching web – waiting, watching, pulling strings. An outdated image, wielding an absurd sort of power in its racism, with all the exaggeration of caricature. An image utterly unrelated to the small, practical woman in the crisp pin-striped suit who welcomed Keith into her home.

For decades, the main Kogane hub has been the private station, orbiting the heart of civilized space. The Koganes are info brokers, traders, and moneylenders all rolled into one, and when a majority of that business is intergalactic, it only makes sense to have a home away from home.

But the place he was received in was one of the Kogane estates: one of several lavish, earthbound properties, located out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.

And to Keith, that place felt vaster and more alien than any space station ever could.

He was ushered into a large room in the massive, Spartan ranch. No furniture, only folded-up paper screens and sparsely decorated walls. She was standing, hands clasped behind her back, in the center. At barely thirteen, scrawny for his age, he was nearly of a size with her.

“Hello, Keith.” The voice clipped, businesslike, but with a warm edge underneath. A sprightly gleam in her one bionic eye. He tried not to stare. “My name is Junko Kogane. Let me put this briefly: I’m going to be your adopted mother.”

His natural instinct was to hiss and spit, but he’d grown cautiously tentative, sensing food and safety offered by the same hand he flinched away from.

“I already have a mother.” He had never met her, no. But his father had promised that he would, one day – he had promised, before—

“I know. But I don’t have a son.” Her tone was not unfriendly, but void of any sentimentality. She looked him over, with an adult respect that lowered his hackles, even though the mechanical eye sent a shiver creeping down his spine. “So you’re the one doing me a favor. Will you hear me out?”

He glared silently, but she took his icy defense as concession.

“You’ll take my name. Learn my business. And when I’m gone, everything that was mine will belong to you. How does that sound?”

No honey in her tone. No sugarcoated lumps of coal to lure him in and leave him cheated, spitting a foul taste from his mouth once the sweetness on the surface had faded.

He liked that.

But Keith was a wild thing, and used to being hunted.

“Why?” he demanded.

Steel curtains behind her human eye, revealing nothing. He was sure she knew exactly what he meant. He also understood there were things she would refuse to tell him.

“Does it matter why? Would you rather someone else had gotten to you first?”

_Someone else._

He swore those words were _knowing_. Like she knew about the shadows. The nightmares. The waking up at absurd hours, the running as fast as his legs could carry him, just so he could be somewhere – anywhere – where he wouldn’t feel so _watched_.

“Why did you _take me_?” he accused, small fists balled at his sides. He hated how skinny his arms were, how little he weighed, how easy it had been for them to make off with him. No matter how kind she seemed, she was the one who had sent those men to grab him, cover his snapping mouth with gloved hands and spirit him away into the night. A street child, an insignificant part of the backdrop, like a lost cobblestone or brick – missed by no one, easily replaced. “Why couldn’t you have _talked_ to me, if you needed a son so bad?”

“All right. Assume we’d tried that. You’re saying you wouldn’t have stolen what you could and run off?”

There was nothing he could say to that. Of course she was right. There wasn’t a chance he would have stayed to listen. Running was what he _did_.

“I’m sorry about our methods. I really am.” He glared at her, and she stared back. Madame Kogane did not need stature to look down on people. “You don’t have to believe me, Keith. But I can teach you how to fight. And when you’re done, no one will ever be able to take you against your will again.”

She played him like a harp. She knew which buttons to press, saw the helplessness in his tense body, in the violet eyes too large for his face. Right on cue, his hummingbird heart ticked faster at the thought of growing as strong as the people who’d finally caught him, undeterred by his speed and his tricks.

At that point, honestly, he was already won over. But even as a child, Keith sensed his own leverage. He wasn’t stupid. He was going to push.

“And what do I get? Not when you’re gone. What do I get _right now_?”

“Anything you want. And I mean anything.” Her human eye gleamed. “Money won’t be a problem.”

Hunger, both figurative and literal, sucked at his insides.

His eyes flickered to the rack of sheathed katanas hanging on the wall. Black and hard and shiny, metal snakes in armor.

“I want a sword.”

He thinks that was the first time he saw genuine amusement in her face.

“A sword,” she said. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

He meets him at the entrance to a club.

The name is Quintessence, and it’s on an asteroid, a chunk of floating space rock never meant to be visited by creatures made of blood and guts. Lance steps out of his shuttle and into a landing bay. He has people with him, to keep him safe, watch his back, but he’s told them to stay one with the shadows. Their orders are to see him only if something goes wrong.

He has a feeling he’s going to want every semblance of privacy he can get.

Lance, plus discreet entourage, exits the bay into the plush interior of a foyer. It’s all thick carpet and hanging drapes bound by gold tassels. The fabrics shift from a brighter magenta to a dark plum color that reminds him of viscera, the inside of a living heart. Above his head is a chandelier, wrought from delicate crystals. Music drifts out from behind the door, the combination of chords unusual and otherworldly.

And there’s someone standing by that door.

He’s already waiting.

Lance feels the breath rush out of him in a near-sigh, accompanied by that familiar tingle of excitement at the sight of him.

Lotor’s wearing a sleek black garment, with a high-collared jacket that cinches in at his trim waist. His long hair is loose around his shoulders, the strands nearest his face pulled back into a low ponytail to keep it out of his bright yellow eyes. A rebellious cowlick has escaped, falling across his sharp features, begging to be twirled around a finger and tugged.

 _I want to pull his hair._ Lance lets the thought come, surprised at how _violent_ it is, how he feels it in his entire body.

“Hello, Lance.” His _voice_. Ugh. “Good to see you.”

“Hey,” says Lance, unable to help the smile tugging at his lips. He flicks his bangs out of his face – he’s gone for a dressed-down look, almost boyish, hair just barely tousled with gel.

Lotor’s eyes arc up and down Lance’s body, taking in his skin-tight white jeans and sheer dark blue shirt, the contours of his torso obvious underneath it.

(“How do I look?” he’d asked Pidge, sending her a full-body picture before leaving.

“Like a trashy escort faking class,” she deadpanned in reply.

“Ooh, nice. Am I expensive?”

“I am not having this conversation, Lance.”)

“This joint looks fancy,” Lance goes on. He notices that Lotor’s fingers are still encrusted with rings. There are gold hoops in his pointed ears.

Lotor chuckles under his breath, exposing a glimpse of sharp canine. “You haven’t seen the inside yet.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“Of course.” Smiling, Lotor offers Lance his arm.

Lance cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. “You think I’m one of your decorations?”

Lotor’s eyes flash as his arm lowers. “I apologize.”

“Don’t. I’m the first guy to love the idea of a babe clinging to me. But don’t try that with me.” He’s lying through his teeth, because while part of him loves the idea of being paraded around on this hot Galra’s arm, he isn’t quite done being feisty.

He takes Lotor’s wrist, and as casually as he can, slips the Galra’s big hand into his own back pocket. Lance suppresses a little shiver as his palm cups his ass – his jeans are so tight that very little is left to the imagination.

“I’m a cut above that,” he purrs, and his body fills with a satisfied glow when Lotor’s handsome face melts into a wolfish grin.

Lance snakes his own arm around Lotor’s narrow waist, surprised by how _warm_ he is – his body positively radiates heat, as if from its own internal furnace, and it seeps into him where they touch. _He’s warm like Keith is warm,_ Lance catches himself thinking – then rips up the thought and sends the pieces through his mental paper shredder, because while he may be very into Keith Kogane’s velvety dark eyes and his lean muscles and the delicious noises he makes during sex, he does not think about his nemesis-turned-fling while he’s on a hot date with someone _else_. “Let’s go.”

Lotor leads him into the club. It really is a nice place; the décor is expensive, and he’s sure a single one of those chandeliers would fetch more than three Lances’ worth of organs on the black market. The venue is bustling but not full, with an all-ages, multi-species clientele, although Lance notices a notable absence of the very creepiest patrons – this club has class in the way that means more than having existed for a long time and appealing to people with enough cash to buy their dreams. You don’t come here to consume something beautiful just because you can – you come to look good yourself, and be seen, and admired.

Lance looks good, so he likes that.

With his free hand, Lotor hails a waitress. She has pale blue skin and soft, drooping ears, a curvaceous humanoid body. Lance notices that the staff is all different species, all different genders, but all of them are gorgeous. They are also mostly naked, draped in transparent pink silks and thin gold chains around necks and wrists and ankles. Crystals glimmer in their ears and, if they have them, belly buttons.

The waitress leads them up a staircase that curves like a seashell, mutely gestures to a roomy booth that overlooks the bar and an empty stage. Detaching himself from Lotor, Lance sinks into the seat on one side of the table, and his date sits down opposite him.

He notices, again, just how _pretty_ he is, compared to most Galra Lance has seen. He’s only encountered a handful, but none of them have had those chiseled, fragile features, that … ethereal quality.

Lance is so attracted to it he thinks he might die.

“I promised I’d buy you your next drink,” Lotor says, as Lance peruses the menu that the waitress hands them.

“True,” says Lance, and turns to her before she can slink away. “Excuse me? I’d like the most expensive booze you have. But nothing too weird, flavor-wise. Do you have Epicure access? You can find my taste profile under L. Álvarez.” Hunk’s the one who convinced him to create an account with the service, which is well-used among intergalactic gourmands and a frequent sponsor of Hunk’s vid channel. It’s an easy way to appear like you know what the fuck you’re doing.

The waitress bows her head and slips away, and Lance turns to see how Lotor is reacting to this obvious fleecing of his bank account.

The corners of his lips are tilted up in amusement. “Connoisseur?”

“I’m the heir to a corporate empire. I’m used to a certain standard.” Okay, so he’s technically third in line, and he’ll never be CEO. But Lotor doesn’t need to know that. Money talks, that’s all that matters. “If it’s too much, I’ll just put it on my own tab …”

Lotor’s eyes gleam. “Don’t worry about it. I said I’d treat you. Let me.”

So, he’s loaded – check.

It takes every ounce of self-control Lance has not to blurt, _Are you the Galra Prince?_ Because damn, does he want to scratch that itch. Somehow, miraculously, he reins himself in. “Fine by me. Go right ahead.”

A different staff member, this time androgynous with a face like an aquiline cat, comes to pour them bright magenta liquid in sparkling thin-stemmed glasses.

“Bring in a bottle of champagne, too. Iced, please,” Lance says, without taking his eyes off Lotor, and all Lotor does is smile that knowing smile, like Lance’s splurging is something he’s happy to indulge.

They clink glasses, just as the smoky band music stops and the lights dim, illumination falling on the center of the stage.

A human woman takes it, her plump, voluptuous body sheathed in a sequined dress that catches and refracts the soft light. Her lips are painted dark, almost black, her long curly hair piled on her head in a messy bun.

She takes the silver microphone with both hands, and launches into a song. Her voice is deep and sensual and has Lance’s toes and belly curling. It’s as if her song is caressing him, raising goosebumps on his skin. A glance at Lotor shows him watching her with a faint smile on his lips.

Lance has a feeling he knows what’s coming next, and when the woman uses her teeth to pull off first one long black glove, then the other, his suspicions are confirmed. He watches with sweet breathlessness as she shimmies out of the dress, is left in a corset that her bosom spills out of, and high shiny stockings.

She runs her hands down her sides, beautiful voice holding the whole time, even as she high kicks, slips into a split. And when her corset comes off, she makes an expression of comical astonishment, and Lance adds his voice to the chorus of whoops. She has a confidence that makes her very sexy, and it’s heavy in the swing of her hips as she walks offstage after her performance.

There’s a brief pause for clapping, the din of voices and clinking glasses starting up again. Lance and Lotor’s eyes meet across the table. Lance catches his lower lip between his teeth; Lotor smiles wryly and tops up Lance’s champagne.

Then the lights dim again, and an Altean boy walks onstage. He is wearing stilettos that are painfully high, and a thin silky robe that looks made for ripping. Several heavy necklaces loop his slender neck.

“He’s my favorite,” Lotor says, with the off-handedness of a regular.

And Lance almost feels a stupid twinge of jealousy, before he turns for a closer look, and – oh. The Altean has dark skin, thin hips, long slender legs. From up here, Lance can’t tell what color his eyes are, but he thinks he can wager a guess.

Huh. Someone has a type.

He allows himself the smug rush of satisfaction he feels at that. He crosses his legs and props his chin daintily on his hand as he turns to watch the boy perform, offering up a perfect profile view for said _someone_ to admire.

The Altean boy’s style of dance is like nothing Lance has ever seen before. They watch as he moves his limbs in smooth motions, to music full of reedy flutes and sultry percussion. His hips sway from side to side, the pink Altean markings on his body glowing in perfect harmony with the venue’s soft rose light.

He sheds the robe, revealing delicate garters and a tight stomach, muscle immediately obvious under his smooth skin. Heat uncurls in Lance’s belly, and the one stupid thought that fills his mind is, _Holy_ fuck _, I love being bi._

Then the boy contorts – bending himself into a perfect arch, gripping his own ankles, bringing his body all the way around – doing all of it in those _heels_.

Damn. Lance suspects he could rock the same outfit, but he doesn’t have the moves.

He watches the pretty Altean twist himself into impossible shapes. Something about the sheer amount of strength and skill of it commands respect rather than desire – although it only partly cancels out how good he looks in stockings and high-heeled shoes. He stares, mouth half-open, at the supple body on the stage. And then, almost subconsciously, he sneaks a glance at Lotor out of the corner of his eye – jumps a little when he notices the Galra is looking at _him_ , not the dancer.

His expression is raw and honest, an open book, and Lance reads hunger in its pages.

He swallows hard. Feels his heart pounding in his throat.

He slides his foot under the table until it bumps against Lotor’s boot, and Lotor doesn’t pull away. He just keeps staring at Lance, with those luminous yellow eyes.

“Aren’t you paying attention? I thought he was your favorite,” Lance says, his dry throat taking the teasing edge off his voice.

“Not tonight,” Lotor murmurs.

Fuck.

“You know what?” Lance says. “It’s getting a little lonely over on this side.”

Risky, but his heart is pounding furiously at the very top of his chest, and nobody looks at him like that unless it’s with desire.

Lotor gets out of his side of the booth, and slips in beside Lance. The heat of him is immediately obvious, beaming through the thin fabric of Lance’s clothes. He slings his arm over the top of the booth, hovering a cut above Lance’s shoulders.

Not good enough.

Lance reaches out and squeezes Lotor’s thigh.

A sharp inhale of breath from the Galra, and Lance smiles to himself, small and smug. He kneads the flesh a little bit, lets his palm slide up and down, dangerously near the junction between his legs.

“So, are you going to pour me another drink?”

Lotor’s hands are steady as he reaches for the crystal carafe, fills Lance’s glass, and hands it to him. Lance takes it with his free hand, lets the fruity, spicy liquid spill down his throat, then licks his lips and sets it back on the table.

“Quality stuff. Good place, too. Guess you do deliver.” He trails a single finger along the inside of Lotor’s thigh.

“Mmm. You’re worth it,” Lotor murmurs.

He cocks an eyebrow. “How would you know?”

“Because you’re exquisite,” he says, without a trace of irony, and Lance feels heat flood his cheeks. He’s not sure that’s a word anyone’s ever used to describe him.

“Well. Not too shabby yourself.”

Shit. They’re eye fucking so hard Lance wouldn’t be surprised if his ass felt it in the morning. He allows himself to note the perfect arches of Lotor’s white brows, the cheekbones so high they could touch heaven, the soft curve of his lips …

Then – finally – his arm drops to encircle Lance’s shoulders – and Lotor’s not bigger than him by much, but there’s a strength and assertiveness in the movement that makes him feel dainty and small.

Lotor pulls him in closer.

And he knows what’s happening, and he _wants_ what’s happening, and Lance tightens his grip on the flesh of Lotor’s thigh as he tilts his face up and kisses a Galra for the first time.

His eyelids flutter shut as their mouths press together, and Lotor’s scent surrounds him on all sides – cologne, and underneath, a body-scent that’s distinctly non-human but musky and warm, piquing interest far, far back in the primitive regions of Lance’s brain.

It’s dry at first, and soft, but then Lance goes to wet his own lower lip, tongue brushing against Lotor’s mouth in the process.

And the Galra’s lips, so surprisingly gentle, open, and the tip of his tongue flicks into Lance’s mouth, and it makes his stomach clench with excitement as he reciprocates in kind. It’s so tentative, almost juvenile, toes dipping into water to see if it’s warm. Somehow that makes it sexy, the way a risqué photo can be better than a centerfold – the best parts left to the imagination.

He feels the prick of sharp teeth against his lower lip, and blood floods his brain so rapidly he thinks he might faint.

Lance pulls away. His heart is attempting to leap out of his chest. He’s breathing so hard, it’s embarrassing.

He glances up. Lotor looks composed, but there’s a new crease in that lilac brow that proves Lance has gotten to him. _Good._

“Huh,” Lance croaks, gazing into yellow eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you across that room.”

That voice will be the end of him. The way it drops even deeper after kissing. The fucking _accent_. Lay Lance to _die_.

“Are your lines always that good, or are you spoiling me?”

Breathless laughter, then, and _god_ , he is handsome when he laughs.

“Are you always this blunt?”

“Yeah. Like a curb stomp.” Lance releases his grip on Lotor’s thigh, brings his hands up to smooth the high collar of his jacket. And they end up staring again, a new glow in Lotor’s eyes as he lets his fingers stroke through the hair at the nape of Lance’s neck. And shit – he knows it’s lame as hell, but it makes him shudder. “Speaking of blunt – that was nice and all, but I don’t fuck on the first date.”

Lying through his teeth again – he’s fucked on more first dates than he can remember, and there’s usually no second date, usually because he’s the one who doesn’t want one. But Lotor, with his smooth flirting and entourage of girls, might be a player with a game that rivals Lance’s. And this time he can’t stand the thought. Wants to draw this out, savor it.

He thinks it’s because he likes feeling pursued, for once. Normally he finds someone he wants and reels them in with sweet-talk and the luxurious promise of his last name, but he’s surprisingly into the roles being reversed.

The hunter becomes the hunted, as the tagline goes.

“I see.” That mouth, the mouth Lance very badly wants to kiss again, smirks. “Then I guess I’ll just have to take you out again.”

Mm. Exactly what he wanted to hear. A noise slips out of Lance that sounds very much like a fucking giggle, and he hates himself for it, but too late.

He reaches up to let his lips ghost against the corner of Lotor’s mouth. Lotor’s answering chuckle brushes against his cheek, and Lance’s belly curls with delicious longing.

“Now,” Lance says, leaning back into the plush seat and the attractive warmth of Lotor’s arm, and allowing his hand to settle into position on Lotor’s firm thigh. “More champagne?”

 

* * *

 

“So, moving on to the main topic of this meeting: we’re going to be expanding into Galra space.”

“ _What_? Lance’s voice rings out against the polished wooden walls of the Álvarez family conference room. Eight pairs of eyes suddenly zero in on him, and he squirms in his chair, but manages to force out two more words. “That’s _absurd_.”

His father’s eyes, brown flecked with blue, look tired. “Why is that, Lance?”

 _What kind of question is that?_ Lance grew up hearing the Kogane clan disdained for its uncomfortably cozy ties to the Galra. _If we do this, we’re no better than them._

_I’m no better than Keith._

“Associating with them will look bad for us.”

“The Galra are becoming a force to be reckoned with,” Lance’s aunt speaks up. “Either we expand, or risk losing a major chunk of the market when they start trading in earnest.”

“Aren’t you the one who used to say we could only trust them as far as one of our ships can fly into their space?” Lance points out. “As in, _not at all_?”

“There’s been talk of opening up. Easing the restrictions. The Galra are finally showing the universe a more welcoming face,” says Lance’s older sister, hands folded primly in front of her.

“She’s right,” says Lance’s father. “It’s absolutely vital that we get there first.”

“As in, before Junko Kogane?” José Álvarez’s face tenses, but Lance keeps pushing, never taking his eyes from his father’s. “So your way of dealing with that rivalry is stooping to her level?”

“Why are you of all people so opposed to it, Lance?” his cousin, Erin, snipes from across the table. “Last I heard, you were expanding into Galra space yourself.”

Nosy little bitch. She must have pestered his bodyguards, gotten them to dish about Lotor.

“What do you care?” he snaps. “Mind your own business.”

“The way you seem so keen to mind ours? Crash it nose-first into the fucking ground?”

“Some of us can actually tell the difference between our personal lives and a cargo company. It’s kind of sad that you can’t. Do you need me to hook you up, cuz?”

“ _Ay_ , stop it,” urges Luis, Lance’s eldest brother. Luis Alexander Álvarez is pushing thirty, and he’s the one who will take over control of this colossus, one day. “Lance, your objections have been noted.” His gaze hardens. “Although Erin’s right. If you’re so concerned about things that make us look bad, sleep in your own bed for once in your life.”

Erin narrows her eyes in satisfaction, and Lance crosses his arms and scowls.

He hates this. He just wants to leave. Just wants to hang out at Hunk’s apartment, bake delicious pastries, and eat them in front of a horrible movie, head in Pidge’s lap and legs draped over Hunk on the comfy couch. He doesn’t want to be sitting around this table with these people he loves more than anything, is loyal to more than anything, but who exhaust him more than anything, too.

He remembers being a kid and going over to Hunk’s place, where he’d be welcomed by his best friend’s mother – a beautiful Samoan actress – and her eccentric artist wife. He remembers the laid-back, cozy atmosphere in that home, so totally unlike his own family.

The problem with a family business is that, at times, those two words become hard to tell apart. Sometimes Lance feels like the people in his family are just rungs in a corporate fucking hierarchy, feels like they’re stepping on his hands, trying to make him fall.

He wishes he could let go of the ladder without, yeah, crashing nose-first into the fucking ground.

Not for the first time, Lance Álvarez wishes he could fly.

 

* * *

 

For once, Keith’s the one who books a room.

It’s back at the Castle, because Keith can always find a reason to be there, and he’s learned that Lance jumps at every excuse to go. Keith shows up early, to convince himself he’s there for any reason other than getting laid, but he just ends up sitting at the bar and talking to Coran.

That happens a lot, at the Castle. Keith’s excuse for it is keeping up those good relations with Altea, but it’s more because Coran is a fixture, one of the few people Keith feels comfortable around. Coran will pour him a few fingers of whiskey, and they talk while he mixes drinks. Bartending’s an odd hobby for a royal advisor, but then, Coran is an odd man.

“Do you know Lance Álvarez?” Keith asks, then immediately regrets it. It must seem out of nowhere to Coran, who hasn’t spent all day lost in thoughts of running his hands up Lance’s sides.

“Álvarez as in Álvarez Cargo?”

“Yeah.”

“Skinny kid? Flirty? Gets ridiculous around Allura?”

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Coran is not a neutral party, and that most of what he says probably gets back to his princess. Keith finds it hard to care, though.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Seen him around. Don’t know him.”

“You’d like him,” Keith hears himself say. “His sense of humor is terrible.”

“I take horrible offense at your implication, Keith.”

Keith grins, swirls the whiskey around his glass.

“So you know him?” Coran asks.

“We went to high school together.”

“Before you moved on to greener pastures.”

“Yeah.”

“I seem to recall your families don’t get along.”

“No. Neither do we.”

“So why’d you ask?” Coran’s tone is carefully neutral.

Discomfort crawls up the back of Keith’s neck. “No reason. He’s just been … popping up all over lately.”

“I see.” Coran’s orange mustache twitches. Keith should probably deflect with a new topic, but all he does is remain stubbornly silent, waiting for Coran to do the heavy lifting. _What the fuck do I even say? Why am I like this?_

“… another drink?”

 _Ugh._ “Yes please.”

 

* * *

 

Later the same night, Keith’s sitting on the plush bed in the suite he booked, and Lance is kneeling between his legs, sucking cock like a champion. Keith can feel his breathing, soft and surprisingly even, where his nose is buried in the curls above his dick.

There is something infuriatingly sexy about Lance shutting up.

Keith’s hands are gripping Lance’s short hair. It’s so incredibly soft, and his mouth is so hot and wet, and how does one subjugate a gag reflex so _completely_? Keith will never know, but it feels good, and feels even _better_ to look at the expression on Lance’s face: his brow creased in concentration, eyes closed, looking blissfully content where he is.

Keith rocks his hips, fucks deeper into Lance’s throat, and Lance moans around him, fingers digging into Keith’s thighs. The heat building in Keith’s stomach crests, and Lance pulls back at the last minute, letting Keith come all over his stupid perfect face.

He swears the sight nearly kills him. His own cum stark white against Lance’s smooth brown skin, specks of it caught in his hair and eyebrows, but mainly spattered around his swollen mouth. And that mouth cracks into a delighted smirk, exposing a hint of teeth just as pearly white, and a pink, pink tongue peeks out to taste the mess Keith made.

Lance’s hand is still loosely wrapped around the base of Keith’s slackening cock. He sighs deeply, and Keith feels it reverberating in every cell of his being.

“God, yes.” Lance’s voice is raspy. His throat sounds _used_. Keith can’t say anything. He feels completely anchored into place, and his face is burning. “Love when you give it to me.”

Sweet stars above.

Lance stands up. His knees are raw from the carpet, Keith notes, flushing. And then he leans in, wraps his arms around Keith’s neck, and gives him a slow and lingering kiss. Keith tastes himself, as a touch of brine on Lance’s lips.

Lance pulls back, still smirking, cum still smeared across his high cheekbones.

“Messy,” Keith murmurs, wiping a spot with his thumb.

“Yeah. Love it.” He licks his lips. His warm breath ghosts over Keith’s skin. “Do I look hot?”

“Yeah,” Keith grunts. He’s bad at lying. “Come here.”

“Ooh. Yes, sir.” And Lance is in his lap, in his arms, and they’re kissing – languid at first, then passionate. Lance kisses like he talks, quick and sharp. He gives Keith’s lips little nips, then sucks at them, first one, then the other.

Keith pushes his fingers into Lance’s hair, and Lance nearly purrs, back arching into the touch. He rakes his nails lightly down Keith’s sides, and the sensation is tantalizing, something sweet just out of reach.

And for the millionth time, Keith _wants_ – that’s the only way he can describe it, can’t choose just one object for that fever that builds in him at the sight of those thighs, those lips, that neck and stomach and smile—

He just _wants_.

All of it.

* * *

 

Lance ends up sleeping over.

When he’s the one who books their hotel rooms, he usually has Keith make a separate reservation, so that he can kick him out after. But, as he’s been forced to acknowledge, they passed the point of pretense long ago.

He admits to himself, a bit reluctantly, that it’s useless to get his own room when he enjoys himself so much between the sheets in this one.

He drifts to sleep with his arm slung around Keith’s middle. Wakes up spooned against his side, one leg nudged in between his to absorb some of his incredible warmth.

Lance makes fun of Keith’s morning breath, and Keith, brow creased and wearing an expression like a thundercloud, tells him to shut the fuck up. Lance watches Keith blearily stumble into the bathroom to piss. When he comes back, his hair looks slightly more controlled – as if he raked his fingers through it – but a rogue tuft is still sticking up on his forehead.

 _Cute,_ Lance thinks. About his nemesis.

They get room service breakfast and eat it in bed. Lance devours most of the bacon, earning him a glare, while Keith turns out to have no manners whatsoever and gets crumbs all over the sheets.

“You’re so _messy_ , Keith,” Lance teases.

“Can it, Lance. Like that means anything coming from you.” And he pauses for a second, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, before murmuring, “Cumslut.”

And that has Lance’s entire body _burning_. “Keith, _language_.”

He laughs, quiet but genuine. A very Keith laugh. “Knew you’d be into that.”

“Amazing detective skills, Sherlock. You can use them to solve your own _murder_.”

Keith just smirks at that, ignores him. “But really, you’re one to talk. You’ve got jelly on your face.”

“I do _not_ —”

And Keith leans in and licks it off, and all of a sudden they’re moving all the trays onto the floor, and then Keith is on top of Lance and they’re making out again.

Keith’s hand finds Lance’s, squeezes. He moves down to bite Lance’s neck, purpling it, ensuring he’ll need to wear high collars for a while. Lance moans and holds him close and enjoys every second.

Morning sex with Keith, Lance concludes, is just as good as evening sex.

Which actually means that noon is as good as 3 AM. Just with more stubble.

Afterward, Lance sees Keith with shaving cream all over his face, and watches him pull on his underwear and button his shirt to face the day. He tries not to think about how surreal that is.

He catches a glimpse of a knife as Keith tucks it into his jacket. From the practiced, unthinking movements, it’s obvious that he always keeps it on him, and somehow seeing it feels more intimate than looking at him naked. Keith catches him staring, and Lance admits he always has a pistol handy on his own person.

Their eyes meet, and they exchange a look of mutual understanding. It’s not easy, being rich.

At least they have that in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who's been cheering me on. this fic is a crazy experiment and i'm so, so grateful for all the support i've been given.
> 
> comments mean the world. seriously.  
> next time: plot. maybe.


	5. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a moon becomes a dance floor, music is made, and a chase comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: brief mentions of drug use. also mentions of divorce if that bothers anyone idk ;;; this is an edgelord fic sorry
> 
> as always, [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4?si=s-wlXpnpRz6IiDz_-wwYQQ). also, the incredible ruvi made me a _[whole new playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5kuakFuUb9GTwYu3mErFsI8rRc8JUHhM)_ which you should also go check the fuck out, because HOLY SHIT. THERE'S SO MUCH AMAZING STUFF ON THERE THANK YOU SO MUCH HOLY SHITTTT
> 
> three songs were especially important for this chapter, though (2 of them found thanks to ruvi, BLESS U BRUH):  
> [this for the club](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyx0W5UhJGM): Casual Affair - Panic! At The Disco
> 
> [this for the bar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RV9Ma1v6N20): Hit & Run - Hayley Kiyoko  
> and [this is what's played and sung by a certain someone:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ea8xhq-ZWFM) Fever - originally by Peggy Lee, but I really prefer this version on yt which is sadly not on spotify
> 
> i enjoyed writing this one. i hope you'll enjoy reading it as well. c:

“Ever danced on a moon?”

It’s a strange question, but Lance has to admit that he has not. It’s an experience everyone should have, Lotor shoots back. And just like that, their next date is decided.

“You ever gonna run out of nice places to take me?” Lance teases, over the phone.

“I doubt it. I have a lot of exclusive access.”

“I’ll bet. So do I, though. A full deck of unmarked black cards doesn’t make you special.”

“I guarantee none of your cards would get you into these clubs.”

“How so?” And Lance decides to take a risk. “They reserved for royalty or something?”

Lotor’s voice gives nothing away. “They’re in Galra space.”

He swears Lotor can hear his eyes widen.

Galra space. Off-limits. Now _that’s_ exclusive.

It might not be for long, though. Grimly, he remembers the in-progress trading agreement. It still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. And yeah, maybe that’s hypocritical of him, considering he’s also pretty desperate for the taste of one specific Galra in his mouth, but he maintains that there is a border between personal and corporate.

If he doesn’t, he’ll get swallowed up by it, and he’s not sure he’d ever make it out again.

Nevertheless, they go to a moon.

It’s only on the outskirts of Galra space, which is just as well: these grey areas are a kind of lawless land, which is risky on the one hand, but also means he can’t be spirited away by Galra agents without any hope of being found.

Besides, once they get to the club, it turns out to be worth it.

It’s unlike anything Lance has ever done.

At first, the dance floor looks like it could be at any other nightclub – strobing lights, a crush of beautiful, barely-dressed bodies, a massive sound system, multiple bars. Lance moves through flashing neon, watches his skin turn from green to pink to gold, and he’s drunk, dancing, elated.

The clear dome protecting them from the merciless emptiness of space is hardly even visible from down here. A barren vista of alien rock stretches out into the distance, reddish moonscape of crevasses and boulders eventually meeting a starlit horizon.

Tearing his eyes from the view, Lance throws everything into dancing, moving his body and breathing the smells of sweat, perfume, and life. Music throbs against his eardrums – impossible outside of the dome, just a few yards away; sound doesn’t travel in vacuum.

Lotor’s body presses close against Lance’s back; warm breath gusts against his throat as lips press to the junction of neck and shoulder.

Lance throws his head back, and looks up, into the void.

It’s dizzying, magical, raw. Out there, the bright star that this moon’s planet orbits winks metallic blue, a beacon of distant fire. In here, where the air somehow feels as fresh as if he were standing on an earth hillside on a summer’s day, he feels hands on his hips, drunkenness tingling in his fingers.

Lance is alive – a beating mess of nerves and flesh and bone and sinew – and being trapped in this unimaginable expanse of dead matter, as painfully beautiful as it is unaware, makes him feel each beat of his heart that much stronger.

Pills make it better, Lotor said. But Lance wanted to remain himself for this. A pair of shots and the awe he’s feeling have him intoxicated enough.

Sweat’s beading on his dark skin, most of which is exposed – he’s wearing the tightest, shortest shorts he owns, and a loose tank top with a scooped neck and sleeves, flashing nipples and collarbones whenever he moves.

Lotor’s not much better off. Sure, he has on full-length pants, but also a cropped fishnet excuse of a top that exposes a diamond pattern of sculpted purple chest.

Lance turns in Lotor’s arms, dances facing him. He can tell Lotor loves the way he moves, from the way those bright eyes follow every twist of his body. He might not be a flexible Altean in stiletto heels, but he has the footwork and pelvis and rhythm of someone who grew up with beaches, parties, and encouraging cheers – first from family, then friends, then lovers pressed close to him, whispering praise into his ear.

Lotor’s eyes are wide, the suggestion of pupil within his yellow sclera blown huge from whatever he’s taken. Lance laughs breathlessly, throws his arms around his neck and grinds into him, dirty and low. Lotor pushes back, lips parting in a faint smile, and there’s that flash of sharp teeth that has sweet excitement dripping down Lance’s spine.

That long white hair is tied into a high ponytail, cascading down Lotor’s neck and shoulders in perfect waves. Lance reaches up and pulls the hair tie loose, and it spills free, a wash of tangible moonlight. Lance runs his fingers through it as Lotor shakes it out, and his big-but-slender Galra body and expression of perfect abandon on his face make him look completely alien and utterly human all at the same time.

He can’t help himself. Lance grabs him, pulls him in, and his lithe human body must feel so cool against Lotor’s Galra heat as he presses them together for a kiss.

A gentle tongue snakes into his mouth, questing, probing. Lance inhales deeply through his nose, moans into it, kissing back harder and wetter and sucking on the tip of that tongue that he wants to feel all over him.

“Do you wanna go inside?” he breathes, audible even over the thump of the music. He wants to find a dark corner, run his hands and mouth over that fishnet lace, that tight bare stomach.

“Not yet.” Lotor’s eyes glimmer. “It’s starting.”

“What is?” Lance says, against his lips.

“Planetrise.”

Big hands find his shoulders, turning him around, and the gasp catches in Lance’s throat. The entire crowd has turned in a single direction, barely daring to breathe.

A mass of golden-orange, striations of browns and yellows and rich mahoganies, a dark spot swirling part of the surface – the gas giant, whose dent in space-time seduces this moon into nestling close, is rising.

Lance has seen earth-rise from orbit before. That, too, was poignantly, achingly beautiful. But this – this planet is _huge._ It’s hard to even conceive of a celestial body that size, but _watching_ it, unobstructed, from the surface of a lifeless world – it births a throb in Lance’s chest that feels half like his heart, half like sheer awe.

He falls back into Lotor’s arms, enjoys the comforting press of strong chest against his spine. “It’s beautiful.”

Lotor kisses his temple, breath ghosting through his hair. “So are you.”

Lance laughs softly. “You’re high.”

“You’re amazing.”

Lance reaches for Lotor’s wrist. Feels the pulse there. Even Galra are mortal.

“I want you to make me forget my name,” he whispers.

Lotor turns Lance in his arms, and kisses him beneath that massive open sky, and for one suspended moment it’s as if they are all alone in the utter vastness of space.

 

* * *

 

Lance had almost forgotten what it’s like: indulging in decadence, throwing disgusting sums of money at inconsequential things, reveling in the privilege he just happened to be born into. And he has to admit that part of him loves it – being young, beautiful, and filthy rich.

Lotor’s the one who reminded him.

Lance learns that Lotor has another side to him, quite unlike the smooth operator who kissed his champagne-stained lips in the mauve light of Quintessence. That side is flamboyant, dramatic, all stops pulled out.

Lance learns this when Lotor takes him to clubs to meet groups of adoring girls – he remembers all their names, and flirts shamelessly, laughing and tossing his head, handing out kisses.

Lance learns this when they lose all inhibitions at a high-end psychedelic club, when he’s offered some substance and declines – “Sorry, I don’t do that stuff anymore” – and Lotor shrugs, then snorts a line off the table. He spends the first half of the night ecstatic and dancing wildly, and the second lethargic, with his head resting in Lance’s lap. Lance runs his hands through Lotor’s long hair, soothing him as he comes down from his high.

He wonders, idly, what Lotor is running from. He used to hang with those party crowds, back when he’d get blackout drunk more often than not, and most of them were running from something.

_I sure was._

He doesn’t think about it much, though, when they get dressed up together in newly-bought clothes – he almost dies when he sees Lotor in an Earth-style three-piece, waistcoat and all – and spend their nights drinking, talking, and then kissing in the back of a hyperspeed shuttle or limousine. Big Galra hands on his hips and ass, sharp Galra teeth snagging on his lip, once even drawing blood …

He’s into it. He really, really is.

They haven’t had sex, and Lance suspects Lotor is leaving this one up to him. He’s a bit reluctant to jump into bed with him, though – because, he realizes grimly, he’s afraid that once he does, he’ll have nothing else to offer.

At the same time, he can’t let go of the thought that he might indeed be having an affair with Galra royalty – and although he doesn’t voice his suspicions, the notion refuses to die.

If it is true, and if they do fuck, it’ll mean he slept with the heir to the galaxy-spanning Galra Kingdom. The idea leaves him a little out of breath. Lance’s romantic escapades have shown up in gossip columns before, but fucking a _prince_?

Well, shit. That’s a first.

 

* * *

 

“I think you should stop seeing him.”

Lance raises disbelieving eyebrows at Hunk. “Excuse me?”

“This guy you’re seeing. The mysterious alien guy you won’t talk about.”

“I shouldn’t see him because he’s an alien?” Lance says, offended. “You didn’t have this problem when I was dating Plaxum.”

Hunk rolls his eyes at the mention of Lance’s mermaid ex-girlfriend. “Yeah, because Plaxum was also a wonderful person. It was just inconvenient to go out with someone whose natural habitat would kill you. You guys agreed on that.”

Sniffing, Lance crosses his arms over his chest. “Then what’s your problem with the person I’m currently dating?”

Hunk’s wide chin juts out into a pout, the way it does when he’s about to say something he knows Lance doesn’t want to hear. “I don’t think he’s good for you.”

“And who made you my mother?”

“I don’t know, maybe all the other times you’d have been better off if you’d just listened to me?”

“I’m an adult, you know!”

“Fine,” Hunk says, in a tone of voice that communicates that it is _not_ fine, that nothing is fine.

“Fine! We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

Hunk’s big brown eyes narrow, and he looks like he’d really like to add something – always a sucker for the last word.

At that moment, there’s a beeping noise and the whirr of Hunk’s apartment door sliding open. A second later, Pidge comes inside, in her standard uniform of shorts and hoodie, light brown hair messy and on end. She’s designed keycards for herself, so that she can let herself in, even though Lance and Hunk would have given her officially sanctioned ones – she said she enjoyed the challenge of coding them.

“Hey, Pidgey,” Lance says brightly, deciding to be mature and just ignore the tension between him and Hunk.

“Hey guys. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” says Hunk, the sarcasm so thick in his voice that Lance instantly knows what’s coming. He spins around to glare at his so-called friend, but he just plunges right ahead, undeterred. “Except that Lance is dating a guy who gets him in piss-drunk party mode all the time, and he won’t listen when I tell him that’s a stupid-ass idea. Otherwise, we’re cool.”

“You can’t ever just keep your mouth shut, huh?” Lance hisses. “Maybe you should ditch the food angle and start running a gossip channel.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut when you stop being a self-destructive idiot.”

The look in Hunk’s eyes is angry, but it’s also a look of concern – the look of someone who’s held Lance, sobbing and sick with alcohol, at ungodly hours of the morning, and stroked his back until he calmed down.

Lance steels himself against the guilt. He’s nowhere near that place anymore, and it’s not Hunk’s job to police what he does. He refuses to feel bad.

“Whoa, whoa,” says Pidge, setting her messenger bag down on the floor and lifting her small hands in a disarming gesture. “Listen, I get that you guys have been platonically married since forever and that that means you argue sometimes, but remember that you love each other, okay?”

Hunk and Lance both flinch at that. Pidge is still dealing with the aftershocks of her parents’ divorce. She doesn’t need her friends to be fighting.

Hunk sighs. “You’re right. I do love him. Even though he’s a foolish butthead.”

Lance throws a weak punch at Hunk’s shoulder. “I love you too. Even if you _are_ a meddling busybody.”

“Close enough,” Pidge says dryly, and drops down on the couch, crossing her legs. “So, who’s this guy? Same one you went on a date with that time?”

“Yes,” Lance mumbles, reluctant to talk about it in the face of Hunk’s disapproval. “It’s not a big deal. He thinks I’m attractive and we have fun together, ’s all.”

“Is _he_ attractive?” Pidge teases.

“Yes. Fuck yes.”

There’s a gleam in her honey eyes suggesting she wants to ask more questions, but Hunk, thick arms crossed over his chest, interrupts. “Well, _I_ think he sounds sleazy.”

“Hunk,” Lance says dryly, “you might not have noticed, blinded as you are by a best friend’s love – but _I’m_ sleazy.”

“Birds of a feather,” Pidge says, in a tone of agreement. Hunk scowls. “Anyway, I thought we were here to hang out and have fun.”

Hunk sighs. “You’re right, Pidge. I’ll shuffle my ass back in line.” His eyes narrow at Lance, though. “But it still doesn’t mean I like it.”

As they set up the system, Lance’s thoughts go briefly to the _other_ person he’s … seeing. He hasn’t met up with Keith for several weeks now – he’s been busy with Lotor, and Keith must have been busy brooding, or doing whatever Keith does, because he hasn’t called.

You can’t really miss someone you only see for sex, Lance reminds himself. Still, he finds himself thinking of dark eyes, strong arms, and perhaps the best pillow-talk he’s ever had, and forces down the strange squirming in his chest. It’s game time, after all.

The best thing about old video games, Pidge and Lance both agree, is that they let you curl up on the couch with your best buds and simultaneously kick each other’s asses. Pidge is involved in a lot of online communities dedicated to setting up bootleg servers for games whose official lifespan has long since ended. VR games kick ass, all three of them think so, but something about it just isn’t the same.

While they play, Hunk gets them snacks from the kitchen – part of the same area as the living room, in his open, hypermodern apartment. The décor is all designer, but the walls are covered in geeky posters, the floor is piled high with gifts from his subscribers, and his yellow surfboard hangs in an honorary spot above the holoscreen deck.

They take a little break to eat, Hunk and Pidge discussing the new stealth system they’re designing for Kaltenecker, and Lance lamenting for the billionth time that they are building a ship with a fucking _stealth system_ but not letting him fly it.

“By the way,” Hunk says, his voice very soft. “How’re things at home, Pidge?”

Pidge sighs, tiny shoulders slumping inward. “I don’t know. All right?”

“You sure?”

“I … guess. It’s just taking some time to process. I just … never thought they would actually split up, you know? We seemed like the perfect family.”

Hunk puts a large, soothing hand on her back, makes a sympathetic noise.

“It could be a lot worse,” Pidge goes on, rambling now. “I mean, there wasn’t really any fighting or anything, and they’re more or less still friends. I’m an adult, and I didn’t even have to be there for it, so I don’t know why I feel so upset or how come my heart clenches just from thinking about it or—”

“Pidge,” Hunk interrupts, “your sense of security got ripped out from under you, and your family split in half. No matter the circumstances, _that still sucks._ ”

“Yeah,” she sighs, deflating. “It does.”

Lance reaches out and squeezes Pidge’s hand. Suddenly, it feels very frail. “How’s Matt taking it?”

“I’m not sure. We haven’t talked in a while. He’s so close to Dad, since they work together and all, and they’re always holed up in the lab. Sometimes I feel like they’ve just … gone missing, you know? Like I don’t know where to go to get them back. And I feel so bad for Mom – like, why am I not there for her, and—”

Lance can feel another breathless rant coming on. “Hey,” he says. “You’re busy providing for yourself, and becoming the most badass hacker this world has ever seen. You know your mom supports you. She loves you and wants to see you grow.”

A wavering smile touches Pidge’s lips. Her eyes are shiny behind her glasses. “Yeah. That’s true.”

Her hand finally squeezes his back. Hunk pulls Pidge in close and presses a sloppy, affectionate smooch to the side of her face. “Hunk, ew!” she exclaims, but she’s laughing.

“Just remember, no matter what, you’re our favorite girl,” Hunk says, giving her a fond, bone-breaking hug.

Once she’s recovered from the patented Hunk Embrace, Lance swears he sees Pidge’s eyes flicker behind her glasses. “Actually, uh …” She trails off, and Hunk and Lance exchange a confused look.

“Yeah?”

“… nevermind, it’s stupid. Let’s play.” All at once, Pidge’s spark is back. “I’m gonna kick _both_ your asses.”

So they do. And she does.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Keith. How’re you doing?”

There’s soft concern in Shiro’s voice, and it still makes Keith’s body glow warm – knowing you have a person, _your_ person, someone who’ll always stick with you, through thick and thin. He’s come to understand that this is what family feels like.

“I’m fine, Shiro.”

“I’m not sure you are.” Shiro’s broad shoulders roll under his muscle tank. Scarring is visible on his bare skin, especially heavy where his bionic arm connects to his flesh. The silver metal looks starkly artificial against the living tissue. “You know I can tell with you.”

Keith’s stretching out his own legs, all his limbs sore from sparring, his hands sweaty in his fingerless gloves. It’s true that Shiro has always been able to read him, he thinks with a twinge of guilty shame – remembering another time they were sparring, years ago, when he’d thrown himself at Shiro both literally and figuratively.

“Okay, look. To be honest, it’s probably nothing,” Keith lies, as much to himself as to Shiro. “But lately I’ve been feeling … like something’s following me.”

Shiro frowns, and Keith explains about the flashes at the corner of his eye, the constant paranoia.

“But like I said, it’s probably nothing. Just ghosts.”

“You think it could be … look, I don’t want to project or anything,” Shiro says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but like, a PTSD reaction of some sort? Related to … well, your past?” His voice is tentative; he doesn’t like talking about that, but they both know that when Keith lived on the streets, he was used to being chased. It’s a logical conclusion. But …

“No. It only started recently. That wouldn’t make sense.”

“Well, what about … what happened? That time? Do you think that might have triggered it?”

Keith swallows, stares at his hands. Familiar dread spreads through his gut at the memory of _that_ day. The day he saved Shiro’s life.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

“Keith, if you think someone’s actually stalking you—”

“No!” Keith snaps. “Look, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. If Madame finds out, she’ll put eight guards on me, watching me constantly, and then I can never get away, never relax—”

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Shiro holds up his robotic hand in a placating gesture. His white forelock is stuck to his forehead with sweat. “I won’t say anything. But you can count on me to look out for you, buddy.”

Keith exhales, tension and anger exiting with his breath. “Yeah. Thanks, Shiro. Should we start cleaning up?”

“We _should_. Technically. But the thing is …”

“Oh no. You’re trying to get out of something, aren’t you?”

Shiro’s expression looks like it would fit a kid with his hand in the cookie jar better than a fully-grown, ridiculously muscular man. He forgets, sometimes, that Keith’s just as good as reading _him_. “I don’t know what you mean.”

_“Takashi.”_

“Okay, fine!” Shiro’s eye actually _twitches_. “I promised Madame I’d go see Slav about my arm.”

That explains it. Madame Kogane maintains that obtaining the services of the green, eight-armed alien genius is one of the greatest accomplishments her family organization has ever made. His understanding of advanced tech from any civilization is unparalleled, and he is also the one who does routine checks and designs improvements for Shiro’s prosthetic arm.

Shiro can’t stand him. He nearly has an aneurysm just from hearing his name.

Keith tries and fails to hide his smile. Takashi Shirogane, immovable rock of leadership and decorated war hero, gets driven completely over the edge by a tiny alien with a screwdriver and an obsessive personality.

“Fuck you,” says Shiro, when he notices Keith grinning. “You’re not the one who sat there for two and a half hours while he kept redoing the soldering to ‘prevent doom in fifteen different alternate realities.’”

“Did you breathe on him wrong or something?”

“Fuck. You.” Shiro scowls at him, but Keith is shaking with laughter. “God, I’d die for a cigarette before dealing with this.”

“Ew, don’t. They’re vile and stinky,” says Keith, who stands by this, even though he was able to ignore his disgust with tobacco while he kissed Lance’s still-smoky lips.

“ _You’re_ vile and stinky,” Shiro glowers, and Keith rolls his eyes.

“You really are six years old. C’mon, let’s hit the showers.”

 

* * *

 

Not many people know this, but the one thing that had Lance’s initial dislike of Keith boiling over into outright hatred was flying.

All his life, Lance has loved the idea of flying – spent his childhood watching the massive cargo ships taking off and landing from the company’s main bay. But the first time he saw a fighter jet, he fell helplessly in love.

As a kid, he read everything he could get his hands on – about the fighter pilots, and about the Galaxy Garrison, where the best of the best were trained. Where Takashi Shirogane was trained. Part of him was set on going there, before his parents shut down the idea of him attending a military school. _That’s not happening, Lance. You’re going to college._

For once, not even Hunk agreed with him. “Dude, you can’t go off to be a soldier. I’d miss you too much. Can’t you just … I dunno, buy yourself a plane? Fly it around somewhere for fun? It’s more or less the same, right? I mean, not that I can relate at all; just thinking about flying makes me want to puke, but …”

 _But I want to make a difference,_ Lance thought, even as he felt himself giving up that dream.

The aviators’ club at his school briefly rekindled it. When Lance became a junior – finally sixteen – the first thing he did was enroll in the aviation class offered by the prestigious private academy. That class provided a gateway to an exclusive summer program, where the top-scoring students would get the chance to learn from Garrison instructors for a full month.

Lance put everything he had into training for it. He never quite managed to claw himself up to number one, but he did think he was doing well enough to break the top three.

But then there was Keith Kogane.

He enrolled in the class late, apparently because someone had discovered he had a penchant for flying, and got him to pursue it for extra credit. And it turned out that “penchant” was massively underselling it.

Keith flew like a fucking god.

He claimed the top spot as easily as plucking a berry, and Lance ended up getting bumped down a step too far.

It fucking crushed him. The one thing he felt was really _his_ , that he had really worked for, that he truly deserved – snatched out from under his nose by a street rat that someone had dusted off and dressed in a tailored suit.

It _hurt._ It hurt so badly.

It was only a matter of time before he ran into Keith in the hallway. And although Lance is actually quite adept at understanding what is and isn’t a bad idea, he is absolutely terrible at listening to what that instinct tells him.

He was young and spoiled and angry, and he picked a fight.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “on getting in.”

Keith’s eyes seemed cold to him. Reptilian. “Oh. Thanks, uh …”

 _He doesn’t know me._ “Lance.” No reaction. “Álvarez.” And there it was, the glint of recognition in Keith’s eyes.

“Ah. Of course, sorry. There are so many Álvarezes, I can’t keep track—”

“Don’t sweat it,” Lance said, with false brightness. “There may be a lot of us, but I mean, at least we don’t have to pick up random kids off the streets to fill out our ranks.”

Keith gave him the satisfaction of flinching. “Maybe you should shut up about things you know nothing about,” he seethed.

Lance shrugged. Glared. “Whatever.”

“Look, it’s not like this makes it impossible for you to ever fly,” Keith said, changing the subject. “Your family’s in the cargo business, right? So you have plenty of ships—”

Lance barked a laugh. Comparing a bulky cargo ship to a slim and agile fighter – it felt like an insult, aimed straight at him. “That’s not the point, and you know it. And I’m not looking for pity from _you_.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem to be feeling pretty damn sorry for yourself,” Keith snapped. “Are you pissed there’s finally something you can’t just _buy_?”

And Lance hated his smug, beautiful face. That hatred seized hold of him, and had him throw a punch right at it.

It devolved into an all-out fistfight. By the time teachers showed up to break things up, Keith had a writhing Lance pinned, arms behind his back, Lance struggling against that rock-solid hold in pain and humiliation. While Keith was distracted by the commotion, Lance jabbed a razor elbow into his ribs and jumped out of his reach, glaring.

Lance had a black eye from the ordeal, and Keith was sporting a split lip. They got detention for it. They would have been suspended if they had had less favorable surnames, and they both knew it. It gave Lance a dark sense of satisfaction: no matter how hard Keith pretended he had some sort of moral high ground here, his adopted family was just as disgustingly loaded as Lance’s.

God, Lance hated him.

After all, hard work meant nothing in the face of natural talent that raw, that dazzling. Who cared if Lance had fought for years when Keith could waltz in and be effortlessly better?

You can learn a lot of things, but spark is different. Either you’re born with it, or you’re not.

Lance was born with a fortune to his name. Keith wasn’t, but he got it anyway. That, and he flew like he’d been born with wings on his back.

_Some people have everything._

It stabbed deep. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to rationalize it, how long he spent picking apart his thoughts.

_I’d do so much better, if I were him._

_I’d be so much more deserving._

Maybe he’s just an entitled piece of shit. Maybe _that’s_ what Lance was born to: jealousy and inadequacy.

Keith taking the bait and punching him back stung, but it also felt sweet. It felt like a go-ahead. The golden boy wasn’t perfect, after all. It was all right for Lance to hate him.

 _And I do. I hate him so much_ , Lance thought, and turned his back on mirrors.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a long time since Keith was on Earth.

He lives on the Kogane space station now – not far from Earth, with modern technology at his disposal, but there’s not really any reason for him to go back. Not for him, and not for Shiro. And he does everything with Shiro, so usually, they just stay in orbit.

But today, he’s here.

He’s come to demand money.

Keith’s been given the information he needs, no more, no less. There’s a man who’s taken a substantial loan of Kogane money to run some kind of business on his own. The briefing didn’t say what it was, and it doesn’t matter. The point is that payment’s overdue.

He’s not going to beat him up in an alley. Nothing that crude. Keith is just a messenger, just the first reminder. Usually he is also the last, though not always.

He’s been told that the man in question frequents this bar – The Lion’s Den, in Los Angeles. It has live entertainment on Saturdays, so he should be here.

He wasn’t expecting it to be so crowded, though.

He’s used to crowds – used to using them for cover – but he doesn’t like them. After skimming the place with his eyes – white grand piano nestled in one corner, dim lighting, plush red booths and mahogany walls and old photographs in gilded frames – without finding his target, he slips away for a breather.

Keith passes through a bead curtain and pushes open the door to the men’s room. He splashes his face with cold water, then looks at himself in the mirror – big dark eyes, frowning mouth, permanently scowling brow exposed by his combed-back hair.

_He’s not really her son._

_Where did he come from?_

_Who is he?_

“Well, if it ain’t Keith. My favorite asshole.”

He jumps, furious with himself for getting so startled, and whirls to level a glare at Lance.

Incredible. How the fuck is he here?

Then he remembers that the Álvarez Cargo Earth Headquarters is in California. The company is proud of its Cuban roots, but runs most of its domestic business from here.

Still, though. The odds of running into him are pretty insane, but so is his entire involvement with Lance.

“Long time, no see,” Lance purrs. Keith just scowls at him. “Powdering your nose?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “No. But I’ll consider breaking yours.”

“You are so rude,” Lance says. He’s as handsome as always: dark grey suit, gel-slick hair, blue bow tie. It’s all topped off by his signature smirk. “You look good, though.”

Wow. So Lance was checking him out, too. They are truly paragons of thirst.

Lance leans in, one finger playing along the edge of Keith’s cuff, and Keith catches a whiff of alcohol on his breath. He realizes Lance is already a bit tipsy. “You look _real_ good. Up for a quickie?”

He giggles breathlessly, so he’s probably joking. Not that that helps prevent the involuntary blush that erupts on Keith’s cheeks. And then again, it’s Lance, so part of him might be serious.

“In the men’s room?” Keith murmurs. “Thought you said you were classy.”

“ _You_ know part of me is a trashy ho.”

Lance curls his fingers around Keith’s wrists, looks at him with heavy-lidded blue eyes.

Stars. It’s been a while since they last did it, but memories buried in Keith’s very flesh float back to the surface, and a smoldering coal ignites in his gut.

Emboldened, he reaches out, and rubs Lance between the legs.

Lance sucks in a delighted gasp, breath hissing back out in a slow exhale. “ _Yes_ , babe.”

Keith gives Lance’s bulge a squeeze, and Lance lets out a low, sweet moan.

Part of Keith wants to leave Lance with blue balls – payback, for that time at the Castle – but the part of him that hasn’t slept with Lance for three weeks ends up winning out.

“Come on,” he whispers. Can’t even bother with being embarrassed at how easily coerced he was. He tangles their fingers together, and drags Lance with him into one of the bathrooms.

They’re real rooms, not just stalls. Clean, spacious, lock on the door. Lance locks that door behind them, lets Keith push him against the wall and claim his lips in a kiss. Kissing Lance is familiar by now, but he still gets a thrill every time that mouth curves against his own.

Keith goes on groping him through his clothes, and it has Lance panting at the pressure, covering his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle any moans. Burying his face in Lance’s neck, covering it with wet kisses, Keith deftly undoes his belt, rucks down his tight boxer briefs, and lets Lance’s cock spring free. It’s hot, heavy, and half-hard; Keith gives it a slow stroke, relishes the way Lance shudders.

He brings his hand up to Lance’s face, runs his thumb over the seam of his lips. Lance’s mouth drops open, and Keith pushes his fingers inside, his stomach tightening at the sight of Lance’s face: brow crinkled, eyes closed, as he sucks them.

Once his hand is slick with saliva, Keith brings it back down and starts to stroke Lance in earnest. Lance lets out a tiny, shuddering breath, hips rocking back and forth with Keith’s rhythm, fucking into his fist.

“Oh, damn. Oh, yes.”

He refuses to get flustered by the noises Lance is making.

Keith takes a moment to play with Lance’s balls, rolling them in his palm, rubbing the pad of his thumb over loose, silky-soft skin. Unlike Keith, who’s strictly a trimmer, Lance shaves almost everything. It leaves him enticingly smooth, and Keith thinks about fucking him again, feels his own hard-on start to push against the front of his pants. _Shit._

When he goes back to working Lance’s shaft, Lance’s hands come up around the back of his neck, yanking him in close to press their lips together. Keith sucks the tip of his tongue, twists his wrist just slightly, and that’s what does it – Lance comes into Keith’s hand with a whimper.

He pushes Keith away – takes a moment to wipe himself off, tuck himself back in his pants with shaky hands, while Keith hovers close by, nearly vibrating. And then – oh, thank gods – Lance reverses their positions.

“Your turn,” he chuckles, and drops to his knees.

Keith’s mind nearly whites out as Lance unzips his pants and nuzzles against his crotch. Then, after kissing the rapidly hardening bulge through the fabric, he finally takes his cock out.

He looks up at Keith, a teasing gleam in his eyes, and licks around the head, slow and savoring. Keith’s insides liquefy completely as Lance takes the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, nudging into the slit—

“Fuck,” he hisses, hears his own voice break. “Lance, _fuck_.”

His dick slips free of Lance’s mouth with a pop, and he almost sobs with frustration, looks down into Lance’s wide eyes. “It’s so hot when you say my name,” Lance breathes, leaning in to kiss the tip. “So, what do you think? Am I being a good boy?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, between gritted teeth, hand catching the back of Lance’s head and pushing him closer. “So fucking good, Lance.”

That seems to please him. He wraps one hand around the base of Keith’s cock, puts it back between his perfect lips, then starts sucking sweet and slow.

Keith leans his head against the wall, feeling only the soft hair at the nape of Lance’s neck between his fingers and Lance’s hot, hot mouth around him. When Lance starts to deep-throat him, so perfect and tight, he finds himself pushed up to the edge all at once and—

“Lance, I’m gonna—” is all he has time to say before his mindspace shatters, and pleasure washes over him in a hot cresting wave.

Lance swallows this time. Licks his lips, nearly murdering Keith in the process.

He helps Lance to his feet, and they both fix their hair, straighten their clothes, wash their hands and faces. All without looking at each other. Damn. Is he going to be drunk on a _blowjob_ all fucking night?

“Well,” Lance laughs. “Nice seeing you again.”

Keith grunts in response. Shit, what’s there to say?

“Okay, _now_ I need another drink.” Lance glances over at Keith. “C’mon. Let’s hit the bar.”

So Keith, who’s supposed to be _working_ , damn it, walks out of the men’s room and up to the bar with Lance fucking Álvarez. The same Lance Álvarez who just went down on him.

How can the rest of the world keep spinning when Keith’s was so easily thrown right off its axis?

“Hey,” Keith ventures, as they order – brandy for him, amaretto sour for Lance. “You’re here by yourself?”

Lance laughs softly. “Yeah. Sorta.”

“How come?”

“Was supposed to be on a date.” He smiles sheepishly. “Might’ve looked a bit too hard at someone else, and got blown off. She walked right out on me.”

“Harsh,” Keith says. “But that’s what you get, for not keeping your eyes to yourself.”

Those same eyes rake Keith from his shoes to his hairline, and he feels his body go hot. “Mm. Guess so.”

An awkward silence settles, and Lance turns to chat with the bartender while Keith nurses his drink, casting his eyes around for his target.

“Looks like you’re running good business,” says Lance. “Place is booming. Love it.”

The rough-looking woman with the capable hands sighs, even as she tosses a bottle into the air, catches it, and pours a drink with artistic finesse. “Yeah, it’s great. Problem is, as you can see, we’re a piano bar” – she nods at the instrument in the corner – “but our musician’s running late. I’ve had at least eight people ask me when the music’s starting, so don’t you even dare, because I don’t know.”

“Hey – I can play. I mean, until your regular guy shows up.” Lance offers a winning smile. “I’ve got a big repertoire. I’ll take requests.”

All of a sudden, Keith feels strangely out of breath.

“Why not?” the owner says, a grateful look in her tired eyes. “You’re cute, so they’ll probably like you, even if you suck.”

“I don’t suck, ma’am,” says Lance, very deliberately not looking at Keith, who struggles to contain a snort of laughter.

“All right then. The floor is yours.”

A lopsided grin tugs the corner of Lance’s mouth up toward his eyes. It makes him look younger, somehow.

Blinking, Keith turns his barstool to get a better view as Lance walks around the white grand piano. He slips off his suit jacket, so that he’s just in shirtsleeves. The blue satin bow tie at his neck looks like the ribbon on a gift.

The smooth glass of brandy feels slippery against Keith’s hand.

There are a few stools surrounding the back of the piano, and Lance smiles and chats a bit with the patrons who are sitting there, winking saucily at a woman in a slim-fitting, sequined dress. She laughs, and Keith rolls his eyes.

Lance opens the lid, and the expression that touches his features is almost reverent.

He lays his fingers on the keys.

To get things started, he plays an upbeat, jazzy piece, warming up the crowd. His mouth is still tilted in that crooked smile, blue eyes gleaming, hands teasing music out of the instrument with practiced ease. A familiar feeling starts rising in Keith’s throat, the same strange gut-clenching he felt the first time he saw Lance play – he could choke on it, like a sob.

“Okay, people,” Lance says, after receiving polite applause. “I’m just fillin’ in for the real guy. So – I’ll let you guys decide. What soundtrack do we want for this evening, ladies, gentlemen, neithers and in-betweens?”

The response is tentative at first, but before long, Lance is inundated with people asking him to play all kinds of songs. He deals with them like a pro – he’s got that easy way with others that Keith completely lacks, that makes you feel like he’s your oldest friend.

“That’s the whitest song request I’ve ever heard. I love it. Here goes.”

“Of course I can sing in Spanish! Hit me with it, baby.”

“So, I heard someone in here has a birthday, and this is their favorite song …”

And seeing Lance here, seeing him like this – it’s a different Lance, one Keith thinks he’s glimpsed before. Heavy with afterglow, tangled in silk sheets; breathlessly laughing, cock deep inside Keith, hands clenched bruising and sweet around Keith’s hips; waking up in the morning, bleary from sleep – it’s that Lance. Lance before he’s found a reason to put his guard up. A Lance that seems … real.

The first time he saw Lance play, Keith was entranced by _something_ , but found himself unable to define just what it was.

But this is it. He’s found it.

That realness.

And Keith’s never been passionate about music, never took the time to reflect about that sort of thing. But here, now, in a crowded bar surrounded by strangers and laughter and the joyous melody rising from the grand piano, spun beneath Lance’s fingertips – now, he thinks he gets it.

A lot of other people get it too, judging by the pile of tips that’s accumulating in the jar beside the piano. One of the women sitting around the grand leans over, making a request too softly for Keith to hear.

“Ooh,” Lance says. “Peggy Lee, huh? A classic. I like that.”

He plays the intro, a heavy, enticing swing, and then his soft voice snakes out into the room.

_Never know how much I love you  
Never know how much I care_

He winks at the woman who asked for the song, eats up the answering titters with his eyes.

_When you put your arms around me  
I get a fever that’s so hard to bear_

Lance bites his plush lower lip. Looks up from under his eyelashes, straight at Keith.

Sweet fuck.

_You give me fever when you kiss me  
Fever when you hold me tight_

Keith feels a heavy flush spread through his entire torso, blazing in his cheeks. He can’t look away. He just … can’t. Lance’s voice is liquid honey, and he feels like he might drown. His heart is going ballistic, intent on bruising his ribs from the inside.

He keeps staring like a fucking weirdo until Lance finishes up to take a break, sauntering back over to the bar.

“Hey,” he says. “Having fun sulking into your drink, Kogane?”

“Well, not anymore.” His voice is steady, isn’t it? It has to be. “You ruin everything.”

Lance just grins. “Yeah, okay.”

“Hey, kid,” says the bartender, grinning, and slams what can only be a free drink down on the counter in front of Lance. “You ever need a gig, you let me know.”

Lance smiles, face glowing with real pride.

He turns to the cute, chubby girl on his right. “Hi, doll. Get your friends drinks on me,” he says, handing her his wad of tip money. Then he turns back to Keith, whose face must be doing something he’s not aware of himself, because Lance self-consciously runs a hand over his gelled hair and says, “What? It’s not like I need that cash.”

There’s a pause, where Lance examines his nails and Keith tries to deal with the roiling in his belly.

“So … how’d you like the show?” Lance says slyly, but there’s a tentative sparkle in his blue eyes that makes Keith wonder if he really does want to know.

He clears his throat. “I told you before. You’re good.”

 _I know_ , Lance had said, that time, and then more or less told Keith to fuck off.

Now, he just smiles. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t know you could sing, though.”

Lance laughs. “If you think I’m good, you should hear Hunk.”

The moment dissipates when the real piano guy finally shows up. Turns out it’s not a guy – it’s a tall, slim black girl with the most incredible dreadlocks, and when she sits down and starts playing a jaunty tune, Lance immediately brightens.

There’s a couple, a woman and her androgynous partner, dancing in the middle of the venue. A few people are watching them and cheering them on. They’re quite good – twirling and dipping and stepping their way around one another, seamlessly in rhythm. Lance is watching them, that genuine brightness – that lack of a mask – still glowing on his face.

“Hey, come on,” Lance says, and holds out his hand. “Let’s dance.”

Keith is thunderstruck. “I can’t dance.”

Lance shrugs, still smiling. “Just pretend you’re drunk. No one’s gonna care, anyway. Come _on_.”

And he doesn’t have any idea why he’s so bad at saying no, but he puts his gross, clammy hand in Lance’s smooth, cool one, and lets him pull him to his feet.

Keith really can’t dance. But it turns out that Lance _can_. And it’s almost as if that makes up for it, the way his body twists and his hips shimmy. Keith lets Lance lead, lets him pull him close and swing him out and away, and Keith never, ever thought he’d let anybody _twirl_ him – but there he is, spinning around, Lance’s hand clutched tight in his. The lights of the bar are bright and golden, and his ears are filled with chatter and piano music and ice clinking against glasses, and a lover’s hand is in his, and for a moment Keith is so breathless, so weightless, catches himself _laughing_ … And when Lance pulls him close, he catches his scent, feels his warmth, and his eyes fall shut for just one blessed moment.

As the pianist finishes up her song, Lance gives Keith’s shoulder a squeeze, and says into his ear, “See, babe? You did pretty well.”

It’s hot in here. That’s why he’s flushing.

Then Lance drifts away, moves on to flirt and work the crowd. Keith stands there helplessly for a few moments, wondering what to do with himself.

He slinks back to the bar, tail between his legs, and sits there for what feels like ages. His chest still feels hollow.

But then, in the corner of his eye – he finally spots him. The person he came for. And he remembers why he’s here.

He watches him for a few moments. Waits, ever so patiently. If Lance is a star, golden and shining in the spotlight, Keith is a shadow.

He waits until the man slips outside to smoke, then follows.

It’s dark out here, summer air warm and balmy. A perfume of potted flowers overlays the city stink.

Keith walks over to the man. Gangly, a little nervous-looking. Small glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

He steps out of the shadows. “Hello. I have a message from Madame Kogane.”

The man startles so hard his glasses nearly slide clean off. He turns to look at Keith, eyes wide with horror. Keith can imagine what he must look like. Solemn, black-clad, soulless. Harbinger of bad fucking news.

“I—”

“She wants you to know she never forgets a debt. Not a paid one. Not an _owed_ one.”

“I—I’m looking for a way to get the money – my startup, it’s … things are running slow right now, but—”

“I don’t know what your business is. And I don’t care.” He folds his arms. “I’m just here to deliver a message. It’s the first. You should make sure it’s the last.”

“I’ll do my best, but these things take time – listen. I might need another year …”

“A year? Don’t be ridiculous. You knew what—”

“Hey. What’s going on?”

Oh, _fuck_.

Lance Álvarez, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his hand, is standing there, frowning.

“Wait, I know you,” he says, eyes landing on the hapless man. “I’ve seen you around HQ.”

_What?_

“Mr. Álvarez!” the man exclaims, voice shooting into falsetto, cracking at the end. “Mr. Álvarez, thank god!”

When Lance looks at Keith now, the mask is back, hard, unyielding. Suspicious. Keith’s stomach tightens.

“Why are you harassing my employee?”

It makes sense now. Hired by Álvarez Cargo. Whatever he’s running on the side can’t be savory, and he can’t afford to have them find out. And to hoodwink Álvarez, you turn to the Koganes.

“We were just talking,” Keith says coolly.

“Right. Well, maybe lay the fuck off.”

“Thank you, Mr. Álvarez, thank you—”

“Of course,” Lance says. “And Mr. Álvarez is my dad. Or my brother, maybe. You work for them, not me.”

“Yes, um …” The man hesitates, as if searching for a first name, but coming up blank. Lance spares him a neutral smile. “… thank you, sir.”

He scampers off. Keith’s about to call after him, but Lance gives him a withering look that stops the words short in his throat. “Keith, what the fuck?”

“He owes us and isn’t paying. This is why I _came_.”

“Right. Guess I was naïve to think you just wanted a fun night out.” He looks disgusted. Keith’s got an iron wall around his heart, and he does not care.

“And _you’re_ naïve to think I’m the one at fault here. Is that the kind of person you want in your company? What kind of benefits do you offer, if they need to bed down with the enemy to make ends meet?”

“Fuck you,” Lance snarls. “You loan sharks are fucking parasites. You always find a way.”

“We’re not _loan sharks_.”

“Whatever, Keith! Semantics. What I _do_ know is that _you’re_ a goddamn—”

But he never finds out what he goddamn is, because all of a sudden, he sees it. Clear as day, even in the gloom of the streetlights.

Black shadow. Eyes on him.

His heart rockets into his throat.

And the look in his eyes makes Lance pause. “Wh— _Keith_?”

“Shit,” Keith hisses. Because he’s _sick_ of this – sick of being hunted and hated by someone no matter what he does, no matter who he becomes – and he knows these streets well, and this ends _now_.

Fast as a flash, his knife is in his hand. And he’s tearing away in the direction the shadow vanished in, following his instincts more than any real trail.

“What the fuck?” Lance yells, behind him, and he hears him take up pursuit, pounding down the picturesque cobblestone street, hot on Keith’s heels. Keith doesn’t even notice the confused people crowding to the side of the street to avoid them.

And there—

—Keith’s heart has lodged in his head, replacing his brain, all rational thought gone, and he’s just a sprawling mess of horror and panic and pursuit pursuit pursuit—

—pursuit of the very real, very person-shaped silhouette he sees on the street ahead.

And no—

_No no no—_

There are too many alleys here, and Keith’s useless outside of close combat, and he might be fast, but the shadow’s faster.

He’s going to lose.

So close, and he’s going to fucking _lose_ —

_BANG!_

Thunder shatters the silence, and for a moment, Keith thinks it’s the sound of his mind finally breaking down.

But then—

—the shadow falls. Just as it’s about to whip around a corner, it _falls._

And Keith catches up. He feels like he’s wading through water, but he makes it to the figure scrabbling at the ground to get up, get away, pinning them down despite their hard black armor, staring into the helmet that’s hiding their face.

And there’s going to be a fight, he knows there is, because the shadow is lunging for the wrist holding the knife before Keith can press it to their throat—

—but suddenly, they go stiff beneath him, and hold their hands up over their head.

Surrender.

“One move,” says a breathless voice, “and your ass gets it.”

Keith makes sure his blade is firmly pressed against the stranger’s neck before he turns.

And there’s Lance.

His hair’s messy, brown strands sticking to his forehead and loose around his ears. His clothes are disheveled from running, his chest heaving with exertion, blue eyes narrowed and steely.

In his extended arm, a smoking gun.

Keith remembers. That one morning, dressing his sex-stained, blissfully aching body in front of Lance. Lance seeing him tuck the knife inside his clothes.

 _You showed me yours, so I’ll show you mine,_ Lance said, giving Keith a glimpse of his pistol.

Keith realizes now that part of him never believed Lance could shoot.

“Don’t try to go anywhere,” Lance says, gun still trained on the prone stranger. “Or I’ll shoot again.” His arm’s still taut as a bowstring, poised, aiming. For a moment, nobody dares to breathe.

Another shot explodes into the stillness, so startling that Keith’s bones nearly jump clean out of his skin. He feels the body beneath him jerk, too, and he experiences a split-second of pure horror, convinced for a moment that Lance has really _killed_ them.

Then he sees it – the small, gilded bullet, buried in the sidewalk, not even two inches from the shadow’s head.

“And you don’t want that,” Lance continues coolly. “Because I don’t miss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment, save an author's life. i'll die of joy and be immediately revived by ur kindness.
> 
> or find me on [tumblr!](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com)
> 
> Edit: **I GOT ART FOR THIS CHAPTER.** [The wonderful mizrette @tumblr drew me piano Lance.](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/161418045279/mizrette-hey-so-im-lame-at-leaving-comments-on) AND I'VE BEEN YELLING FOR SO LONG. LOOK AT IT. REBLOG IT. HOLY SHIT.


	6. Mauve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are two phone calls, and two reveals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! thanks so much for the overwhelming response to the last chapter. that love is what gets me motivated to write :')
> 
> warnings this time around: more brief drug mentions because lotor is trash. also, there's a short flashback scene of one-sided sheith (from keith's side), which you could probably guess was a thing, if you've been paying attention. if s/k in all its forms makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip over it - it's pretty obvious when it begins and ends. however, i want to add that while shiro rejects keith bc of their age gap in this universe, i love and respect sheithers with all my heart and soul and am just choosing to explore one of the many wonderful iterations of their dynamic.
> 
> otherwise, all you need to be warned for is that this fic is UNREALISTIC and FULL OF FILTH. but you already knew that.
> 
> some songs plucked from the playlist:  
> [an edgy one for lotor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5H467MnzVs) (lana del rey - million dollar man)  
> [a sexy one for keith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR5u9jb0PJE) (meg myers - desire)  
> [a sad one for lance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1EJOnYvA5Q) that is really important to the entire fic in general its like it was written for it i fuckin swear (oh wonder - dazzle)
> 
> have fun!

“Someone might have heard those shots.” Lance doesn’t take his eyes off the prone figure on the ground. “We should move.”

Keith thinks he might be half in shock. His mind is a blank record, spinning wildly, a staticky track of panic playing underneath.

He forces himself to seize control over his own body. Keeping the tip of his blade pushed to the stranger’s neck, hard enough to dimple flesh, Keith climbs off of them on miraculously steady legs.

“Get up,” he rasps. “Hands where I can see them.”

The shadow-figure gets to their feet. They’re _huge_ – much bigger than Keith or Lance, with elongated proportions that don’t seem quite human. The helmet forms an unyielding crystal curtain, shiny black surface reflecting everything, revealing nothing. The suit is armored, skin-tight, hugging a muscled, broad-shouldered body. A capable fighter. If Lance’s shot hadn’t grazed the soft, unpadded spot behind the knee – which, Keith realizes, was not accidental – this person would have been able to take on both of them. But now, wounded, with a knife at their throat and a gun pointed at their heart, they seem to have admitted defeat.

“Into that alley,” Lance says, gesturing with his head, eyes focused and unmoving. “We need to be quick. Let’s go.”

Awkwardly, to accommodate the stranger’s limping pace, they move onto a dark, deserted side street. Keith’s nose wrinkles at the reek of piss. His eyes quickly adjust to the gloom – it’s windowless, a dead end. The only way out is the way they came, unless you scale the high brick wall closing off the other side.

“All right,” Lance continues, and for once Keith is glad Lance is taking charge, because he’s still pouring everything he has into keeping his arm and breathing steady. “Show us your face. No funny business.”

The stranger lowers their hands to their helmet. Keith’s stomach is coiled so tight he’s afraid he might implode.

The stranger lifts the helmet off.

Purple sideburns, lilac skin. Glowing yellow eyes. High nose and chiseled cheekbones.

A handsome face.

A Galra face.

“Holy crow,” says Lance.

A dam inside Keith finally overflows.

“Who are you?!” he shouts, voice rising to an unnatural pitch. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

And he’s in his space, up close and snarling, an inch from shoving the Galra in the chest and up against the wall to _beat_ the answers out of him, body surging with anger and adrenaline and fear—

“Cool your jets, Keith!”

Lance’s voice brings him back, centers him. At first it pisses him off – who is spoiled, sheltered Lance to tell him to calm down? – but he grudgingly accepts that he’s right. He may have his reasons for it, but Keith isn’t acting rational. His explosive rage cools to a smoldering ember.

“We’ll deal with this,” Lance says, in a low voice, directed at Keith. His tone sharpens as he addresses the Galra man, whose hands are in the air, in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Time for you to answer him.”

“My business is with Keith. I don’t know who you are,” the man says, eyeing Lance suspiciously.

Showing anything other than a united front will have them at a disadvantage. If he tries thinking like a Kogane, Keith knows it’s disastrous to give Lance, an Álvarez, any glimpse of this kind of personal weakness. But if he just thinks like Keith, Lance is somebody who put himself at risk to help Keith out of distress, somebody who is protecting him, supporting him, even now.

Keith inhales, a shuddering breath through his nose.

“Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of him.”

He doesn’t turn to see the look on Lance’s face. But, thankfully, Lance doesn’t shoot back with any smug quips or teasing – for a moment, he’s as stalwart as Shiro.

The Galra’s glowing eyes close briefly, as if he’s collecting himself. When they open again, they stare straight into Keith’s.

“My name is Thace. I am not your enemy.”

All the paranoia and fear of the past several months rears up inside of Keith as anger. “Then why are you _stalking me_?”

“I can’t tell you that now. But please believe me when I say it was only for your protection.”

“My _protection_? Protection from _what_? For months I thought … I thought I was losing my mind.”

It’s a relief to say it – a relief to finally _know_ that he wasn’t seeing ghosts, jumping at shadows – even though speaking it out loud has him trembling with shock and pent-up nerves.

The Galra – Thace – blinks, and there’s astonishment in the depths of his golden eyes. “You … noticed?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, through gritted teeth. Thace winces at the prick of the knife against the bared skin of his throat. “I noticed.”

Thace murmurs something under his breath. It sounds like a soft curse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith registers Lance, gun arm still extended, frowning. He has no idea what’s going on. Keith will have some explaining to do.

But still, Lance is here. Gratitude trickles through Keith’s chest, dissolving some of the tension there.

“Tell me what you want from me,” Keith demands.

“I was watching over you. For your protection.”

“You already said that. It doesn’t make any sense the second time, either.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t understand, Keith.”

“Then explain it to me. _Why do you know my name?_ ” His heart throbs beneath his sternum. It feels like it’s grown denser, smaller – a neutron star under his ribs.

“I can’t tell you that. Not yet.”

“So what _can_ you tell me? Stop wasting my fucking time!”

“Keith, keep your voice down,” Lance warns.

An eerie stillness settles, Lance’s final word borne away on a rustling wind. It leaves only the sounds of distant traffic, Thace’s labored breathing, and Keith’s own wet heartbeat in his ears.

“What,” Keith repeats, voice small and hollow, “can you tell me?”

He wonders what’s happening behind those strange alien eyes. Part of him wants to split Thace’s skull open like a melon, scoop out the juicy secrets hidden inside.

Thace, meanwhile, seems to finally reach the conclusion of some debate he’s been having with himself.

“I belong to an organization called the Blade of Marmora.” He must see the doubt flickering on Keith’s face, because he quickly adds, “We have no quarrel with the Kogane family. Our only concern is with you.”

“I _am_ a Kogane.” He wonders if the hurt that’s pricking at his heart is oozing from his words. Hurt at being made to feel, for the millionth time, like he’s separate. Like he doesn’t belong.

“Of course,” Thace amends. “I’m sorry. The only Kogane we’re concerned with is you.”

Keith’s jaw is clenched so hard he’s afraid he’ll grind his teeth into bone-meal. “Why? What concerns? I’m right here. _Talk to me._ ”

“It’s not my place to say.” Something like sympathy crosses Thace’s expression. “But I agree that you have a right to know. I’ll do my best to arrange for you to meet with our leader.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t. But I’ll entrust you with something important to me.” Thace swallows, jaw set with sincerity. “Do you see the sheath on my belt? Take the knife there. As insurance.”

A sudden wave of nausea sweeps over Keith. It feels like sickness. It feels like certainty.

“Lance,” he croaks.

Thankfully, Lance understands. He approaches slowly, gun still trained on Thace, body tense as a bowstring.

“Don’t move,” Lance warns. “Keep your hands in the air.”

Thace obeys, remaining still. Keith presses the knife harder against his throat, as Lance lowers his gun to fumble with Thace’s belt and remove the knife-sheath from it.

“Why the knife?” Keith demands.

“If you’ll look at it, I think you’ll understand what it means to me.”

And part of Keith doesn’t _want_ to look, as Lance steps away from Thace and pulls the blade out with the soft scrape of metal on leather. Doesn’t want to look because of what he’s sure he’ll see.

“Huh,” Lance says. “Looks familiar.”

Despite himself, Keith’s eyes flicker to the weapon.

The shape. The color.

The symbol on the hilt.

His wrist starts to tremble. Thace hisses as a drop of dark blood trickles from his neck.

Long ago, Keith wrapped his knife-hilt in a scrap of cloth, to cover up the glowing glyph there. Couldn’t bear to always look at it and wonder what it meant, to be asked questions he couldn’t answer.

But there it is, on this Galra blade.

Down to the details, it’s nearly identical to the knife in Keith’s own hand.

“Why.” He hears the tremor in his own voice. “Why is it the same?”

“We will tell you, when the time is right. You have my word.”

“When? Why can’t you tell me _now_?”

“It’s not my place,” Thace repeats, then flinches as Keith slams his bare fist into the wall beside his head.

It achieves nothing, only sends pain radiating down his arm.

Fuck.

“How do we know these knives aren’t just mass-produced pieces of junk?” Lance asks, dangling the blade between his thumb and forefinger. At seeing it handled so carelessly, Thace sucks in a breath – as does Keith, subconsciously. The two men, human and Galra, exchange a startled look.

“Mine was a gift from my mother.” Keith realizes he’s fishing, throwing out lines in the hopes of reeling something, anything, in. “I’ve had it all my life.”

Lance arches an eyebrow. “Huh.”

Thace stares intently into Keith’s face. “Then you know I’m telling the truth.”

Keith looks Thace in the eyes. Listens to his gut. Nods once.

“I promise you that you’ll know everything soon. We’ll come find you. I swear it.”

Keith is choking up, and he has no idea why. “When? Where?”

“We’ll come find you.”

That’s as infuriatingly vague as everything else Thace has said. But there’s a finality in his tone that tells Keith this is all he’s going to get.

“I think that’s all you’re going to get,” says Lance. “It’s not like we can torture him in this alley. That’d be … inconvenient.” He eyes Thace with a look that’s probably supposed to be threatening. Keith bites down on a snort. When he’s not pulling gun stunts, Lance isn’t very good at being intimidating.

“Thank you,” Thace says dryly. “That’s generous.”

Lance stashes his gun back inside its holster, hidden under his jacket. Keith removes his knife from Thace’s throat and steps back. Thace closes his eyes and exhales in relief, tension melting from his broad shoulders.

“Anything else?” Lance asks coolly.

“Yes. Please don’t go asking about the Blade of Marmora. You’ll have your answers in due time.” His tone is plaintive, imploring. “Digging is pointless. It’ll only be frustrating for you. We’ve spent a long time making sure we don’t exist.”

“That’s ominous,” Lance mutters. Thace ignores him.

“I hope to see you again soon, Keith. Take care of the knife.”

He fits his black helmet, now dusty from the struggle, back over his head. Morphs back from Galra into faceless shadow.  And then he backs up, powerful thighs bunching, and launches himself up into the air. There’s the nearly-silent hiss of a grapple hook, and then Thace has swung himself over the wall closing off the alley and disappeared into the night.

Lance whistles. “Wow. Well, that was extra.”

Keith’s body suddenly feels empty.

“How’re you holding up?” Lance asks, softer this time.

“I’m fine,” Keith snaps, harsher than he intended.

“Are you sure? What is going _on_ with you, dude? Some Galra ninja stalker? What the hell?”

“You don’t think _I_ want to know?” Keith drags a hand over his face. “Fuck. Listen – nobody knows about this. No one except you and me.” He isn’t sure how to finish, just looks at Lance, imploring, begging him to put corporate interest aside, to not use this against Keith’s family – against him.

Lance presses his lips together, and nods. “No one else will know.”

Keith’s knees go weak, his shoulders deflating with relief. “Thank you, Lance.”

“Sure. Hey … that shit was fuckin’ intense, man. I feel dead on my feet. And you look it.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Even in the gloom, there’s a knowing gleam in Lance’s eyes. “I think you need coffee.”

 

* * *

 

They end up finding a hole-in-the-wall café for a post-midnight cup of liquid energy. The owner, jaded, doesn’t even react when two young men in rumpled suits stumble inside, one with his arm slung around the other’s shoulders. Lance orders two cappuccinos and a little plate of snacks, then steers them toward a table to sit down.

He would normally have found it condescending, but for once, Keith is grateful for Lance’s arm. For the support it provides, when he’s so unsteady on his own two feet.

Their coffees and snacks arrive, and Lance crunches into a square of dark chocolate. “Wow. What an adventure, huh?”

Keith just grunts, tips the first sip of bitter bliss past his lips. The coffee warms him from the inside, brings him back to life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, as he sets the cup back down. “For … what you did.”

“Sure.” Lance fidgets, raises his hand as if he’s about to rub at the back of his neck, then brings it back down into his lap.

“Didn’t know you could shoot.”

“Again – there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Hmm.”

“I have a _lot_ of questions.”

“That makes two of us.”

“They been stalking you for a while?”

“Yeah. Months, as far as I’ve been aware. I thought … I wasn’t sure if …” Keith swallows. “I wondered if I was going insane.”

“I’m not surprised. Like I said, Galra ninjas.” Lance whistles, reaches for a cookie. “I would never have noticed he was there. How did you know?”

“I … I don’t know. It’s like … a feeling. A flash at the corner of my eye.” Keith sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, so hard it stings. “Fuck, Lance. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Unexpected sympathy in the press of Lance’s lips. “All right. Let’s not. Can I ask you something else?”

“What?”

“Where’s Shiro?”

“Getting his arm tuned up. It’s a bitch and he hates it, so I gave him the day off.” Keith clenches his fists. “This was supposed to be an easy mission. I didn’t think I’d need him with me.”

“The mission. Right.” Lance stares into his cup. “How much debt was that guy in? I’ll pay it.”

“Lance, that’s not how it—”

“Let me know later, and I’ll wire you the money.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“Well, you’re not my dad, so what I do isn’t really up to you.” Lance rotates the cup between his fingertips. “What did he owe you for?”

“I don’t know,” Keith answers honestly. “Some business on the side. That’s all they told me.”

Lance nods. “I’ll look into it.”

They’re silent for a moment. The café lighting is rosy, making Lance’s face glow. His expression is pensive, his eyelashes casting long shadows down his cheeks. Soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, a gentle female voice crooning about melancholy love.

Keith reaches for a pretzel. When he crunches into it, the sound is so loud it feels like he’s devouring the world.

“So,” says Lance. “Where are you going after this?”

“Back to our station.”

“You need a ride or something?”

“No, it’s fine. I came on my hovercraft. I’ll ride that to the shuttle bay.”

“Hovercraft?” Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sweet.”

Keith grins despite himself. “Yeah.”

Lance leans back and sips his coffee. “I know a thing or two about those. You wanna tell me about it?”

Keith has a flash of memory: Shiro teasing him, years ago.

_Keith doesn’t talk much, but try asking him about anything that flies. You’ll never get him to shut up._

“Well,” he says, letting the image of Shiro vanish in a puff, “she’s a red Paladin VX-3000.”

Lance’s eyes widen. “Seriously?! I didn’t think those were available for private consumers.”

“Well, I’m not just some _consumer_ ,” Keith says, haughty, and Lance bursts out laughing. “Hey, you into engine specs at all?”

“Fuck. Are they amazing?”

“Very.”

Lance props his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

 

* * *

 

After he got home from the bizarre run-in with Thace, and arguably even more bizarre coffee date with Keith, Lance slept until two in the afternoon.

He’s eaten a rich breakfast, and now he’s standing in front of his huge walk-in closet, browsing through suggestions for outfits on the little AI screen. He thinks idly about how his enormous collection of clothes doesn’t help a single person in the world, but does manage to serve some pretty sweet looks – how is it possible to loathe and love your own existence so much at the same time? – when his room announces that he has an incoming private call.

The room’s soft voice doesn’t ID the caller, meaning the transmission is encrypted. Lance frowns, waves his hand to accept it, and turns to face the holodeck.

His heart leaps clean out of his ribcage when he sees the face that materializes there. Beautiful long-lashed eyes, cut jawline, lock of white hair.

Battle scar.

Shiro.

“Hello, Lance. How are you?”

Oh god. Is this really happening? Takashi Shirogane, calling _him_?

“Hi. I’m … I’m great, thanks. You?”

“I’m good. Hey, I’m going to cut to the chase here. Keith told me what happened. Thanks for having his back.”

Oh. Of course it’s about Keith. Lance can’t help the way his stomach sinks.

“No problem. It was the least I could do.”

Shiro smiles at him, the definition of masculine perfection. Lance’s heart flutters. “I know you guys don’t really get along. Thank you for setting that aside to help him.”

Lance swallows thickly. He remembers dragging his tongue up the pale column of Keith’s throat. Remembers getting on his knees to suck Keith’s cock, fish for praise, watch him shudder. To the rest of the world, they’re still just rivals, Lance reminds himself.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Keith and I are keeping this quiet.” Shiro’s eyes bore into Lance’s. “Can we count on your support?”

Right. Lance has information, knows something that he might be able to use against Keith and the Koganes. He admits that the thought crossed his mind, even after he promised Keith his lips were sealed. But honestly, having Shiro counting on him is a surefire way to get Lance to do anything.

He was hesitant before too, though. For a different reason.

_Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of him._

A glint in those dark eyes. Firm resolve underneath the shaken terror.

Declaring Lance his equal.

He closes his eyes, briefly. What is it about this that still has flowers blossoming in his chest?

“Yes,” Lance tells Shiro, squaring his shoulders. “Of course. You can count on me.”

Shiro’s expression softens with relief. “Great. Thank you.”

“Sure. Um, Shiro?”

“Yes?”

And Lance isn’t sure what it is that makes him speak up, but before he knows it, the words are leaving his lips.

“I just … I wanted to say … thank _you_. For being such an inspiration. As a pilot, as a person … your career has meant a lot to me.”

“Oh. Well.” Shiro offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Lance’s stomach squirms. His skin is tingling with nervousness. “Can I ask a personal question? You … you don’t have to answer.”

Shiro frowns. “Go ahead.”

“Why are you Keith’s bodyguard? I mean … you’re a _war hero_. Shouldn’t you be … it just doesn’t seem _right_.”

Shiro’s thick eyebrows draw together. “That is personal.”

Lance swallows. “Yeah. Right. I’m sorry.”

“Well, first, I’m not Keith’s bodyguard. I know it looks that way, and technically I do work for him. But I’m Keith’s partner, not his servant. Besides, you’ve seen that Keith can take care of himself.”

“Y-yeah.”

Lance feels frozen into place by Shiro’s cool gaze. “You want to know why I’m doing dirty work for dirty people, instead of holding commencement speeches, or something like that. Right?”

“I …” Fuck. “I guess so, yeah.”

Shiro sighs. “There’s no glory in war, Lance. Take it from me. I used to believe there was, and I discovered the hard way that I was wrong.”

For once, Lance doesn’t know what to say.

“I did what I had to do, and I can’t say if I’m proud of it or not. All I know is that I don’t want to be celebrated for it. I didn’t want interviews or medals or fame. I just wanted to disappear.” Shiro’s eyes glaze over a little. “Madame Kogane was able to give me that. Take me out of the public eye. Keep me busy. And I’ll always be grateful.”

“But …” The childish confusion in his own voice makes Lance want to die. “But you saved so many people. All over the galaxy.”

“I did. I hurt people, too.”

Lance’s gaze catches on the scar, slashing Shiro’s handsome face in two. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m nosy and naïve and—”

“It’s okay. It was my choice to tell you.” Shiro smiles wryly. “Anything else?”

“Um. No. Not really. Tell Keith I said hi.”

“I’ll do that. You’re a good guy, Lance. Take care.”

The holoscreen flickers, and Shiro’s image disappears.

 _Tell Keith I said hi?_ Oh, jeez.

Lance sinks to the floor, covers his eyes with his hands, and groans.

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, Keith was in love.

He was older and he was beautiful and he cared. Admiration turned to trust turned to lying awake at night, face flushed and unfamiliar heat curling in his belly, thinking about his hands and lips and eyes.

One memory in particular stands out to him.

They were in the training room, after practicing kicks and rolls, Shiro’s skin sweaty under his clingy black muscle tee. Keith had been eyeing him the entire time, drinking in his shape, a pleasant tingling suffusing his body. The air was thick with testosterone, and Keith’s mouth felt somehow heavy, as if carrying the premonition of a touch.

_I’m going to do it._

“Hey, Shiro?” he said, stepping closer.

“Hm?”

Keith grabbed Shiro’s shoulders, crowded himself into his space all at once, and reached up to claim his lips.

Only to have strong hands push him away.

“Keith—”

Keith swallowed the lump in his throat, over and over. Refused to acknowledge the rejection staring him in the face.

_I know I’m pretty. He has to see that._

“Shiro, I have feelings for you. I – I _want_ you.”

_I’m supposed to get anything I want._

Big hands gripping his upper arms, one flesh, one metal. _Good._ Holding him firmly at a distance. _Not good._ Keith’s heart burned and ached.

“Keith …” Shiro’s voice was so calm. Keith wanted to punch his perfect face, kiss the bruises.

“Don’t tell me I’m too young!”

Something like pity flickered in Shiro’s dark eyes, and it only made Keith angrier.

“Fine, I won’t. But I will tell you I’m not interested. And I’m asking you to respect that.”

Keith wanted to stomp his foot and demand to know why. Over the past four years, he’d grown used to having everything. But now there was this – the thing he wanted more than anything – dangling just out of his reach, and he _hated_ it.

Shiro, Shiro, Shiro. The face of Keith’s fantasies, the person he imagined on top of him, breathing hard, when his hand was thrust into his pants. The one whose arms Keith wanted around him at night, so that he could curl into his broad, scarred chest, feel safe and sexy and loved.

Keith bit his lip. Glanced up. “Maybe I could get you interested.”

A sigh. Exasperation. That hurt, too. “No, you couldn’t. Keith, listen. You’re not going to like this, but I know what’s going on.”

He struggled not to pout. “What.”

“You were alone for a long time.” An objective statement. Somehow it still stung. “And you’ve never had someone like me. I’m older, more experienced. You look up to me.” He paused, daring Keith to object. Keith stayed silent. “But I also _get_ you. I talk to you. I’m a refuge for you, emotionally.” Again, a pause. Again, Keith said nothing. “And you’re seventeen – I remember what that’s like, wanting to hump anything that moves. Been there.”

“What’s your point?” Keith asked, sulkily.

“That all those things are melding together in you. A need for guidance and friendship, as you’re maturing into a man.” Shiro’s voice was soft and delicious and infuriatingly reasonable. “This is about you, Keith. I’m just a convenient surface to project onto.”

Keith’s temper flared at that. “Are you implying I don’t actually care about you?” His voice cracked, humiliatingly – proving how young he was, proving Shiro right.

“No. I know you care. Just not in the way you think you do.”

It made him angry that Shiro seemed to believe he could read his thoughts. Even angrier that what he was saying made sense. He wanted to cling to his feelings out of spite.

“Fight me,” he said instead.

“What?”

“Fucking fight me, Shiro!”

“You’re pissed now?” Keith didn’t answer, just ground his teeth in reply. “Fine, we’ll keep going. It’ll help you let off some steam.”

And Keith launched himself at him.

He threw a punch at Shiro’s face, and when the bigger man deflected it easily, he followed up with jabs at his midsection – also effortlessly parried, which might have been just as well; Shiro’s abs could have shattered his knuckles.

Keith continued to lash out, throwing his weight into Shiro, taking sick pleasure in being caught around the waist and flung like a rag doll. He liked the physical contact, the way Shiro grunted from exertion, and the way his eyes zeroed in on Keith, making him his target. He liked it when Shiro grabbed him and tossed him out of the way, sent him crashing into walls, the breath forcibly expelled from his lungs on impact. And while he wasn’t a real opponent – not yet – he knew he was getting quicker, better at predicting Shiro’s movements and fine-tuning his own.

_One day I’ll be a match for you._

After, when both their chests were heaving, faces flushed pink, Keith smiled primly to himself in satisfaction. _I know we’d look good together. I know we would._

Nothing ever came of that, nor of any of the attempts that followed. Still, Keith held onto his infatuation with a talon-like grip. Shiro handled it with the understanding and patience of a saint.

It took Shiro almost dying for Keith to finally let it go.

 

* * *

 

Screen-glare flickers through Lance’s room, casting everything in a soft, ghostly light. He’s not paying attention to the show, just lets it play in the background on low volume while he fiddles with his phone. His brain’s tired and full of static buzz, but he doesn’t feel like sleeping.

Lance shifts in bed, sighs. He still can’t believe everything that’s going on with Keith. A Galra stalker from some shady organization? Seriously?

It sounds like a movie. Of course Keith would be the star.

Guilt hits him immediately, for thinking something like that. He remembers the terror in Keith’s wide dark eyes. That was bigger than Lance’s pathetic jealousy. That was real.

When Keith went streaking off into the darkness, Lance didn’t think, just followed. Part of him, admittedly, just wanted to know what was going on – but Keith looked so scared, and Lance’s automatic response was to do something about it.

Maybe he does have a heart.

He sighs and swipes through his social media feeds, passing pictures of wealthy, pretty people, lives framed to look perfect. Lance used to have a million accounts like this. He’s been a lot less active lately, though, content just to follow, and make cameos occasionally when Hunk posts pics.

The mindless scrolling is making him feel kind of empty, but he can’t think of anything else to do. Then he jumps as a selfie of a hot guy in a tailcoat is replaced by the incoming call screen, the phone buzzing softly in his hand.

Lance’s eyebrows arch. It’s him.

He picks up.

“Hey, babe,” he says into the phone. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Hiii, darling. How _are_ you?”

His voice is deep and liquid and makes Lance’s stomach curl. It is also slurred at the edges.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little drunk. A little high. One or the other. Why? Does it matter?”

Lance sighs, draws circles on the sheets with his fingertip. “No. What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

He can’t help the sweet thrill that sends through him. “Hmm. Are you at a club?”

“Mmm. Private party.”

“I can’t hear any music.” Silence, for a moment. “Lotor?”

“I’m in the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom. Why? You hiding?”

“Just … needed a break.” He sounds tired suddenly. Strained. “Needed you.”

“I’m here, baby.” Lance hates how satisfied he feels. He knows this isn’t fair of Lotor – calling Lance up at this ridiculous hour and expecting therapy. He knows he has every right to tell him to fuck off.

He also knows he doesn’t want to. For his own selfish reasons, he doesn’t want to.

“I want you, Lance,” Lotor whines. “I want you here.”

“Don’t you have a girl you can cling to? Or girls, plural?” Lotor always does – Lance has seen it, and envied it, and basked in it. He’s flirted with them himself, absorbed some of the glow from Lotor’s halo. He knows Lotor sleeps with some of them, once Lance leaves.

“I guess. But no one feels as good as you.”

Lance chuckles. “I can’t tell if you’re upset or horny.”

Lotor barks a laugh. “Both. Isn’t it always both?”

In Lance’s experience, it’s usually one or the other. _Horny_ would lead to him waking up in a stranger’s bed, head pounding, both wanting to get home and to never move again. _Upset_ would have him squirreled away behind a locked door, nauseated, tears pricking at his eyelids. It would have him calling Hunk, much like Lotor is calling him now. Hunk was always there: a perfect friend, a reassuring presence, the greatest comfort in the world. Hunk, invaluable, irreplaceable, friends with _Lance_ , just another rich, trashy party boy with four different siblings who could fill his shoes.

The thought of being Lotor’s Hunk thrills him, in a twisted sort of way. He refuses to admit it, but to part of him, even being a discount Hunk feels better than being Lance.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s just … that time of night, yeah?”

“Mm. Emotions running high?”

“Mhmm.” Lotor sighs, drawn out and dramatic. Lance can picture him: long hair disheveled, half out of a ponytail or braid. Slender limbs folded up against the bathroom door. Toned biceps bulging.

His hand has wandered to the waistband of his pajama pants, fingers playing along the edge. The aquarium on the far wall throws shifting liquid shadows onto his skin. He can feel himself stirring. _God, I hate myself._

“I miss you,” Lotor whispers. He sounds … choked up. Teary. Lance has learned that once Lotor drops the smooth façade, he’s theatrical, and he gets mood swings, especially under the influence. He sobbed into Lance’s lap for half an hour, once. Lance had no idea about what.

“You do?” Lance’s fingertips brush the neat patch of dark curls he leaves unshaven. “Are you too sad and tired to find someone to keep you warm?”

“Hmm. Well, maybe not,” Lotor admits, and Lance laughs.

“Thought so.”

“I wish it were you, though.”

Lance’s breath catches in his throat. His thighs feel hot. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Lotor sucks in a shuddering breath. “I’d kiss you all over.”

“I’d make you feel better,” Lance breathes. “I don’t want you to cry, baby. I hate to see you cry.” Lying. He’s lying. He likes the tears, likes being the one to dry them.

“I wouldn’t. Not if I had you.”

“You’ll have me.”

“Oh, stars. When?”

“I’m just … waiting for the right time. I – you know I want you.”

There’s a low moan on the other end, and it sends a hot tongue of flame licking up Lance’s insides. “Are you touching yourself?” he whispers.

A hitched gasp, the clink of a buckle. “Mmm … yeah.”

Lance’s heart is racing fast, now. His palm is getting sweaty around the phone, his mind painting pictures on the inside of his skull. He’s researched Galra porn – information about their culture and government might be nigh impossible to find, but if there’s one thing Lance knows, it’s that porn is always, _always_ available – but all it’s taught him to expect is variation. Galra biology doesn’t seem as uniform as human, so he honestly has no idea what he might find between Lotor’s amazingly long legs.

He admits he’s a little excited to find out, though.

He lets his own fingers trail tentatively down the length of his hardening cock. “Are you thinking about your girls?” he teases, breathlessly.

“I’m thinking about you.”

Shit. That velvet voice casts a spell all its own. Lance shudders, every inch of his skin electric. He adjusts his position on the bed, the sheets rustling around him. Pushes his soft pajama pants down his legs, boxers with them; pulls his dick free. He strokes himself once, twice, exhales hard at the sensation it sends through the pit of his belly.

“I’m thinking about you, too.”

“Nnngh.” Lotor’s breathing speeds up.

“Tell me,” Lance murmurs. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m picturing your pretty face,” Lotor says. Lance is weak for that, for being called pretty. Delighted, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “What are you wearing?”

Even flushed and aroused with his legs splayed open, he can’t help but laugh at that line. “You’re so gross.”

A dark chuckle on the other end. “True. But you’re the one who sent me shirtless photos in the middle of the day.”

“That’s fair.” Lance sucks on his fingers, wets them, then moves his slicked hand back down. He glances at his star-patterned boxers and baggy pants, bunched halfway down his legs. Not very sexy. “What do you want me to be wearing?”

“I’d die to have you in lace,” Lotor purrs, and fuck, if Lance doesn’t nearly bust a nut right there.

He smirks instead, touching himself harder, more insistently. “Stockings and garters?” he teases.

Lotor gasps softly. “Oh, yes.”

Lance’s eyelids fall shut. “I’d ride you wearing them.”

“Shit. Oh, shit.”

A hot wave of delight sweeps through Lance at that muffled curse. “You’re fucking your hand right now, pretending it’s me?” he asks sweetly. Lotor just moans into the phone, and it makes Lance lose his breath, grind his hips into his fist. “Me on you, sitting pretty?”

“So tight, Lance.”

“Mmm – yeah. All yours, baby.” Working himself hard now, feeling precum trickle onto his hand, a hot flush in his cheeks. “Would you grab my ass hard?”

“Yeah. And your thighs. I fucking love your legs, Lance.”

“Good. Imagine my legs around your waist.”

“Mmm. Fuck …”

“Hahh … and … would you bite me?” Lance clenches his eyes shut, pictures sharp teeth sinking into his skin, marking him, staining him, a color dark like wine …

“If you wanted.”

“I want it.” He sighs, rolls his head back, his toes curling. “I want it so bad. I’ll … I’ll be a slut for you.”

“A slut for me,” Lotor repeats. Almost reverent. Lance forces himself to slow down, his trembling hips bucking up in protest, craving friction.

“Yeah. Do you want that? Is that – is that good?”

And, god, he hates how fucking needy he sounds, so eager to be patted on the head, but he can’t help it – he wants it, needs it, that praise and validation.

“So good. You’re perfect. Fuck, you’re so perfect, want you so bad …”

And that has pleasure rushing up Lance’s body so sudden and sweet – and all he can do is gasp “Oh, fuck fuck fuck—” before he comes, hard, mouth dropping open, heat spilling through his lower body, radiating out into his limbs.

“Oh, shit,” Lotor whimpers, as Lance comes down from his high.

“That was for you.” Head still light and spinning, Lance scissors his fingers, examines the sticky white mess on his hand. “Came so hard for you.”

“Mmm …”

“What do you need?” he murmurs, lazy and languid. “I’d let you use my mouth. My hands. My thighs …”

That seems to do it. Lotor hisses, then lets out the longest, sweetest moan Lance has ever heard from him. It’s exciting – he’s only ever imagined him coming, inside him, or on his face. Actually hearing it is better. He tries to picture Lotor’s expression of bliss.

“Feel less upset now?”

Lotor heaves a deep sigh. “I could get high just off you.”

“Try that next time,” Lance urges. “Forget the other stuff.”

He hears Hunk’s voice, in his mind. _You don’t have to save him._

Another voice, his own, whispering, _But I want to, so the best part of him will always belong to me._

“Next time?” says Lotor.

“Yeah. I wanna see you soon.”

“Me too.”

“Okay. Time for you to pick yourself up. You’re too pretty to be hiding in a bathroom.” Lotor chuckles at that, and Lance smiles. “Go find someone to take home.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You always want to. You’re a sleaze.”

“What if I’m happy with just this?”

Lance bites his lip, heart thrumming, stomach curling with anticipation. _Go on. Say it._

“What if I’m happy with just you?”

God, hearing it feels so sweet. “Then you’ll have to sleep alone, babe.”

“Mm. Not for long.” Sweet promise in his words. Lance can hardly breathe.

“You’re so spoiled. Good night, pretty boy.”

“Good night, Lance. See you soon.”

 

* * *

 

**(15:24) i want to see you**

(15:39) ok? im planetside tho dont feel like leaving

**(15:39) thats fine**

**(15:39) i’m still worked up about what happened**

(15:39) who wouldnt be

(15:40) lol that sounded mean. i mean i get it. ofc u are

**(15:41) so can i see you**

(15:43) yeah.

(15:43) i feel like a lazy asshole tho so ur gonna have to come to my place

(15:43) ill text u the address. 15th floor, apt on the left

**(15:44) ok**

(15:44) it might seem kinda weird if u show up and ask for me tho

(15:44) i mean its none of their business but hunk always gossips w the doorman so just sayin. these ppl got loose lips

(15:44) wear a disguise or sth lmao

**(15:45) are you serious**

(15:45) half

**(15:47) ok. well expect me**

(15:47) around when?

(15:50) keith

(15:54) keeeeeeeith

_[Missed call from Lance A. at 15:55]_

(15:57) i hate u

 

* * *

 

Keith’s muscles are burning with exertion by the time he finally reaches the fifteenth floor.

_Apartment on the left._

He hauls himself onto the balcony. The apartments here are so big that there are no other balconies facing the same side, and that combined with the pseudo-invisibility of the suit Keith nicked from the armory lets him climb up unnoticed.

There’s a beach chair out here, and a fucking hot tub. Beside it is a pile of magazines – gaming, military, and some that don’t seem to have any obvious theme besides “hot people.”

Well, at least he’s in the right place.

Keith walks up to the door and knocks on the glass.

He hears a muted screech from inside, and a second later, the curtain is ripped to the side and Lance swims into view – face caked in some kind of black goo, head swaddled in a towel, lanky body wrapped in a silky robe.

Lance’s mouth drops open in outrage, and Keith feels pleasantly smug as Lance fumbles with the latch and yanks the door open.

_“What the fuck?”_

Keith pulls the bandana down from his face. “Hey.”

“What the _fuck_ is going on? I am _not_ seeing this right now. Dude. What even … _get in here._ ”

He ushers Keith inside, and closes the door behind them. Then he folds his arms over his chest like a disappointed matron. “Christ. _You climbed up to the balcony._ ”

“Yeah.”

“This is the _fifteenth floor._ ”

Keith shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Holy mackerel.” Lance’s hand dances around in the air for a moment, like he wants to slap it against his forehead or run it through his hair, but remembered the face mask and towel. “You think you’re one of those Galra ninjas or something? Why didn’t you just _walk in the door_?”

Keith fidgets. “You were the one who said the doorman talks too much.”

_“I was joking!”_

“Besides, I enjoyed the exercise.”

“Keith!”

“And the challenge.”

“You are really something, you know that? Holy shit. I’m going to have to get them to amp up security. I can’t believe no one _saw_ you.”

“I’m very stealthy.”

“Right.”

“Also, I’m wearing camo-weave.” He gestures at the shimmering suit, matching its pattern to whatever is behind him.

“Uh-huh.”

“And a scrambler. For the cams.”

“A scra—wow, okay. I suppose I should just be grateful that you knocked, instead of lasering your way in or something.” Lance whistles. “You know, if it were anyone but you – because I think you’re genuinely just some obliviously weird fitness freak at heart – this would be creepy as fuck.”

“I guess.” Keith cringes a little. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Where’d you learn to climb a _building_?”

“Some of the other street kids were good at parkour. I picked up some tricks from them.”

“Oh. Whoa. Damn.”

Lance looks uncomfortable at the mention of Keith’s less-than-glamorous past. Guilt tickles at his stomach – maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up – but then, rebelliously, he figures Lance can damn well take it. Keith shouldn’t have to apologize for who he is.

“Well, I’m gonna go clean myself up,” Lance says, and waves his hand at the room. “Welcome to my castle. Don’t get too comfortable.”

He disappears into the ensuite bathroom, the sliding door shutting behind him with a _snick_.

Keith unbuckles his gear belt and lets it fall to the floor, steps out of the camo suit, and looks around him.

So this is Lance’s room. Modern and spacious, as expected of a high-end building like this one. Softly bubbling aquarium on one wall, LED-lit, full of plants and tropical fish – a tiny slice of the ocean. Piles of clothes heaped on the stream-lined blue chair, standing in front of a towering computer rig, its giant monitor playing a slideshow of attractive female surfers. A rumpled suit is hanging on the door of the walk-in closet. The sheets on the bed are twisted, the pillow dented from where his head has lain to rest.

Lance’s space.

The hotel rooms, and to some degree the Lance Keith met in them, were anonymous. This is different – gives Lance another dimension, makes him more than someone who only materializes to deliver snark and sex.

He has travel posters. He has a guitar. He has some old stuffed animals in the corner.

He has a home.

Lance comes out of the bathroom, face clean and glowing, hair damp and water-combed. After shedding all the accessories, all Keith is wearing is a close-fitting black shirt and pants. Lance’s eyes lick up his body. “So …”

Two brisk steps and Keith’s closed the distance between them. He winds his arms around Lance’s neck and crushes their mouths together.

It’s sweet and hot, and Lance’s mouth opens, admitting Keith’s tongue. He pushes it inside, lets himself melt into the feel of Lance’s lips on his, breathing the perfumed scent of his soft skin.

“Whoa,” breathes Lance, when they break apart. “Straight to it.”

Keith looks up into his eyes. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Lance exhales all at once, as if the breath got squeezed right out of him. He swallows, smooth skin of his throat moving. “O-oh.”

“Yeah.”

Keith lets the words hang in the air between them. Right now, he can’t think about Galra or knives or cryptic messages or the entire clusterfuck that is and always has been his life. Right now, he just wants Lance. Just wants to be filled and fucked and lost to sensation.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very direct?”

Keith just shrugs.

“All right, then,” says Lance, voice dropping deep with arousal. Anticipation crawls through every inch of Keith’s skin.

Lance undoes the sash of his robe, shrugs his shoulders so that it slips off of them and onto the ground, puddling around his ankles. Keith inhales sharply at the sight of Lance’s bare chest – that toned, delicious body; delicate collarbone; small, kissable nipples. He loves that he _knows_ it now, loves that he can pinpoint its sensitive spots: where Lance likes to be bitten, and where he likes to be spoiled by Keith’s mouth.

He presses his lips against Lance’s neck, moaning as Lance’s hands land on his ass and rub, gently.

“I want your cock in me,” he murmurs against the tendons of Lance’s throat, smirks when he feels them tense under his lips.

Lance makes a low, pleased noise. “Well. I’m sure that can be arranged.”

 

* * *

 

They end up on top of the tangled mess of Lance’s sheets, naked. Keith’s lying on his back, and Lance is sitting on his knees between Keith’s spread legs. One of Lance’s hands is hooked under Keith’s right knee, and the fingers of the other are buried deep inside of Keith, sliding in and out, making his hips tremble and his toes curl.

Keith fucks back onto Lance’s fingers, loving that feeling of being spread open, the burn of it, the rawness. “Lance, fuck,” he groans, opening his legs wider, throwing one arm over his face and biting into his own flesh.

“That feel good, baby?”

“Mmm … yeah, shit. Want more … want _you_ …”

Lance pulls his fingers out, and Keith wails at the sudden absence, the emptiness. Lance slathers his hand with lube, pumps his own dick a couple of times, to make it slick and ready.

“You like it wet?”

“Fuck yes.”

So Lance leans back over him, and when Keith feels him start to push in, he throws his head back and groans. Slowly but surely, Lance sheathes himself entirely, hot and throbbing inside Keith, who’s vibrating, twisting his hips in tight little circles.

“Fuuuck. Come _on_.”

Lance is breathing hard, hovering above Keith, sweat-sheen on his chest and collarbone. The muscles in his arms are bunched and tense.

“Move,” Keith snarls, rakes his nails down Lance’s back. “Do it!”

And Lance hisses and complies, thrusting into Keith _hard_. Keith gasps, clutches him close, lets it fill him and white out his mind. Each snap of Lance’s hips is sweet perfection, and then he starts to mumble, probably unable to help himself, voice husky in Keith’s ear. “Shit, babe, so hot, you look so good …”

Keith scratches at him again, bites Lance’s shoulder hard, and Lance moans long and low and hungry. Not as hungry as Keith, though; he grinds up, wraps his legs around Lance’s waist, trying to drive him deeper, lose himself in the slap of skin on skin and Lance’s wet cock sliding into him and the blaze in his abdomen and face and hands.

_I needed this._

_Needed him._

He groans as Lance’s lips find his neck, scatter kisses across his face and jawline, moving down to mark his heaving chest. Keith wraps his legs tighter around Lance, digs his nails into his shoulders.

“Fuck, Lance. _Harder_.”

“You tryin’ to kill me?” Lance pants, but he complies; Keith slides his hands down Lance’s back, grabs the firm flesh of his ass and squeezes. “Keith, baby, god _damn_ …”

He wonders if it’s even possible for Lance to fuck someone without sounding affectionate. Thinks about everyone Lance has fucked, and feels his belly tighten possessively, bucks up against Lance to feel him all the way inside – _all mine, all mine._

_I want to eat him up._

It’s overpowering, consuming; Lance’s hands grip Keith’s thighs, and Keith stretches up to lick the side of Lance’s face, finds his earlobe and bites it. Lance’s breathing hitches, a high-pitched sound falling from his lips. Their chests press together, dewy with sweat.

_I want to rip him open._

Lance is beautiful, he really is – flushed cheeks, long limbs, flash of white teeth. Keith runs a hand through his hair, so silky between his fingers.

Lance pushes himself up off Keith, falls back onto his knees so he can thrust into him slower but sweeter. He changes his rhythm, fucks him open until he almost sobs – Keith can only grip the sheets until his knuckles whiten, moaning and trembling helplessly.

It doesn’t matter who Keith is, where he came from, why strange people have been stalking him from beyond the stars. Not when he’s surrounded by Lance’s lips and hands and heat.

The new angle is hitting his sweet spot, over and over and over again, and Keith starts seeing bright specks, hears himself cursing – “Oh shit, oh, Lance, nnnnghh—”

Lance ends up coming first – Keith feels him seize, hears the sound he makes. Still inside Keith, shudders rocking his body, he wraps his hand around Keith’s dick – and the touch is so much, makes Keith’s balls draw up and something delicious coil inside him.

“Come on, dirty boy.” Lance leans forward, sucks a mark into Keith’s shoulder, and Keith rolls his hips into Lance’s hand once, twice – and spills.

“Fuck!”

Lance collapses on top of him, head falling against Keith’s shoulder, Keith’s cum sticky between them.

“You okay there?” Keith says, once he’s caught his breath. He feels the puffs of Lance’s chuckle against his cheek.

“You bet, cowboy.”

The nickname makes him grin.

Lance rolls off him, finally slipping out – it makes Keith hiss, and he feels so empty without it, so he curls into Lance’s chest, presses his nose to his sternum. Lance’s arm drops down, circling him.

“Feel better now?”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles deeper, inhaling Lance’s scent.

They lie there, completely fucked out, for a long time. It’s still surreal to Keith, to have done this in Lance’s room. He wonders if it’s even stranger for Lance to have Keith here. He’s the one who lives here, after all, and somehow, that idea makes every touch seem heavier, more lingering. No hotel staff will be clearing away these sheets as soon as Keith leaves. Lance will go to bed with Keith’s scent still in the air.

The thought makes Keith’s cheeks warm.

“Hey,” says Lance, voice rumbling deep in his chest. His palm smooths up and down Keith’s thigh. “You gonna be up for another round?”

Keith’s chuckle comes out as a puff of air through his nose. “If you are.”

“In that case …” He clears his throat. “Would you wanna stay the night?”

Keith looks up, twists a strand of Lance’s short hair around his finger. “Honestly? I just assumed I was invited.”

“Rude,” says Lance, with a handsome, crooked grin.

Keith pulls him down for a kiss, and when their lips meet, he feels Lance’s smile against his own.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up with Lance’s leg thrown over his, his own arm splayed across something that might be Lance’s face.

He shifts, yawns, gravitating toward Lance’s warmth. He slept heavily again – sex with Lance, especially multiple times, tends to have that effect on him.

Lance stirs as Keith’s body presses against his. Opens his eyes. “Hey,” he says, voice still thick with sleep.

“Hey,” Keith whispers, then leans in to cover Lance’s bare shoulder in slow, wet kisses.

Lance’s leg nudges in between Keith’s, his fingers threading into Keith’s hair to massage his scalp. It has Keith just about purring, and he licks up Lance’s shoulder, toward his tender, kiss-marked neck.

A soft chiming suddenly sounds throughout the apartment, making them both jump.

“What’s that?” Keith asks. Whatever it is, he is ready to ignore it, but Lance suddenly looks very, very awake.

“It’s the door. Shit, dude. It’s Hunk.”

Keith’s eyes snap wide open. “It’s _Hunk_?”

“He was coming over for brunch – I totally forgot!”

Keith feels some kind of hysteria flaring up inside him. “Lance, what the _hell_?”

“I’m _sorry_! _You’re_ the one who distracted me!”

He’s _not_ blushing. “Fuck. You want me to just leave the way I came?”

“Shit – no! You can’t keep scaling walls, idiot. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I really won’t—”

“Look, we’re not arguing about this. Just … don’t. We’re just going to have to deal with him.” Helplessly, Lance rakes his hands through his hair. “Oh, _shit_. Do I have hickeys?”

He does. The guilty look on Keith’s face must tell him everything he needs to know.

Lance swears under his breath. “Just put some clothes on. I’ll handle this.”

He leaps out of bed and scoops a mound of fabric off the floor at an unfathomable speed, tugs on underwear and a baseball shirt, and leaves the room still hopping into a pair of baggy jeans.

Keith feels paralyzed. The bleep of the door opening sounds like their fates being sealed.

“Hey, buddy!” Hunk’s voice exclaims. “Morning!”

“Morning. Dude, listen. There’s somebody here, and I need you to not freak out about it or jump to any weird conclusions.”

“Oh my god. Lance, what did you do?”

Meanwhile, Keith manages to find his pants from yesterday, but his top seems to have been tossed into the void. Swearing under his breath, he grabs one of Lance’s cleaner tees at random and yanks it over his head. Then he sits down on Lance’s bed, nervously picking at his nails. His stomach is curling with butterflies.

They’ve been so private so far. The thought of someone seeing them together is hard to process.

Keith doesn’t think Lance will find a convincing way to stall, so he might as well just face the music.

He walks out into the living room.

Hunk’s in the hallway, dressed in a lavender button-down and khakis that flatter his dark skin and hair. He’s talking to Lance, whose animated gestures fall flat the second Hunk looks across the room and exclaims, “Holy shit, it’s Keith!”

“Hey,” Keith says.

Hunk’s eyes take in Keith standing in Lance’s apartment, wearing Lance’s shirt. Slowly, his bushy eyebrows start to climb his forehead. “Guys. What is going on?”

Lance’s head whiplashes from Keith to Hunk and back. “He’s—we’ve kind of been … hanging out?” he says, with a bright smile that is one hundred percent fake.

“Yeah,” Keith supplies, helpfully.

“ _You’ve_ been hanging out with Keith?” Hunk raises a skeptical eyebrow, slants a glance at Keith. “No offense, but you know he hates your guts, right?”

“Yeah, I know. Just, uh – a thing happened, and Lance helped me deal with it.”

“A thing.”

“Yes.”

“And then we kinda … ran into each other,” Lance pipes up.

“So we just—”

“I let him crash here. And borrow my shirt.” The apples of Lance’s cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Yes. That’s it. Thank you, Lance.”

“ _Ooo_ -kay. Glad to hear you guys had a bonding moment,” says Hunk, in a tone that probably means Lance is in for a grilling later. His brown eyes are cool and knowing. It’s not like this situation is hard to piece together, Keith thinks, with a sinking feeling in his gut.

So Hunk knows. Well, it could be worse. They’ll just have to roll with this.

“I have so many questions, and I cannot believe I am saying this, but I’m not going to ask. There are more important matters at hand.” Hunk clears his throat. “Breakfast, boys?”

“Yes, please,” Keith mumbles, humbly.

“Totally,” says Lance. “I’m going to eat my shame.”

Hunk, bless him, ignores that. “Well, Keith, it’s good to see you in this incredibly unlikely place. Do you like omelets?”

“I guess?”

“Then you’ll love mine. Bacon-mushroom-cheese?”

“I’m lactose intolerant. Otherwise, yes.”

Hunk gives Keith a solemn look. “Keith, my man. Sometimes we need to suffer for the greater good. Are you willing to suffer for delicious cheese?”

The reverence in Hunk’s face makes it very hard to say no.

Keith ends up perched on a barstool in Lance’s sleek kitchen, in the awkward position of honored guest, while Lance helps master chef Hunk with menial cooking tasks. The air is filled with the smell of sizzling eggs, and Hunk chatters over the hiss of the frying pan and the _thunk-thunk_ of Lance’s knife on the cutting board.

Hunk’s brand of chill must be unique in the universe. He seems cheerfully determined not to let this become any more terrible than it has to be, and acts like Keith being here is as normal as any other aspect of their best-bros’ brunch.

“So Shay and I were talking the other day via hololink, and she’s so _tall_ —”

“You into that?” Lance teases.

“—shut up, Lance, I’m still talking.” Hunk executes a perfect omelet flip. “Anyway, I’m really hoping I can meet her soon. We’ve been following each other for so long, and she’s just an amazing person, you know?”

“Shay’s a vidder,” Lance fills in, for Keith’s benefit.

“She’s Balmeran,” Hunk says, effortlessly picking up the train. “You know, the rock people? Which is, like, so cool, dude. And, listen – she told me my channel is what inspired her to make her own, because she admired the ‘message of hope I was spreading to the universe.’” Hunk makes a drawn-out noise, best described as a gentle yell of delight.

“That all she admires?” Lance asks slyly, and Hunk rolls his eyes, but is unable to drop his fond smile as he tips Keith’s omelet onto a plate and sets it down in front of him.

Keith listens to them talk, and digs into his food. It turns out that Hunk was right – the blend of eggs and cheese and bacon is so delicious it will most definitely be worth the stomachache later.

The whole tableau is happy and peaceful and utterly surreal. The sort of idyllic snapshot that Keith learned a long time ago cannot possibly last.

Still, though.

He thinks he likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that sure got soft.
> 
>  **i love comments and messages with my entire heart and soul!!** but i understand if you're shy, and remember that i love you if you're reading this, no matter what.
> 
> if you liked this fic and would like others to find it, reblogs of [this post](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/157030937554/deepest-shade) would be great! also, i'm very friendly in general. yell at me here or on [tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/)! c:


	7. Cobalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I give up on taking these summaries seriously and just _love Hunk so much_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music from the playlist that’s relevant for this chapter:  
> [langsty flashback](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0DjcsK_-HY) (Perfect Places - Lorde)  
> [jealous Keith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Alh6iIvVN9o) (I Don’t Care – Fall Out Boy) edit: Got Me Feelin' Like by Trevor Moran is another good one for this  
> a spoileriffic thing but… catch me crying in the club about [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozKWaCgQxeI) for fucking ever bc im so damn emo about them (BLUE – Troye Sivan & Alex Hope). I recommend listening or at least looking up the lyrics if you like to die.
> 
> I’m dedicating this chapter to Kat, who not only read it through for me while I was angsting about it, but also described this fic as “a raspberry chocolate truffle martini, fruity and delicious but also strong without being overpowering” and single handedly ended my fucking life. (Fancy cocktails are the way to my heart.) YOU’RE THE BEST. THANK YOU. ;A;
> 
> also don't look up what a rolex watch costs. you will puke in your mouth a little.

“Time to dish, Lance. What’s up with Keith, huh?”

Hunk looks at Lance from the other side of Lance’s couch, where they’re sprawled, legs up, facing each other. Lance pointedly stares back at him, chin jutting out stubbornly, and feels his cheeks get hot.

“Why do you care? What do you _think_ is up?”

Hunk’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “I have a lot of theories. But I thought I’d be magnanimous and give you the chance to tell me the truth.”

For a long moment, Lance considers just not telling him anything. But if there’s one person who can spin a story more unlikely than what actually happened, it’s Hunk.

Plus, the hickeys on his neck speak volumes of their own.

“Fine. Okay, look. We’ve been, sort of … hooking up.”

“Oh my god.”

“Why do you look so shocked? You’re the one who said you had _theories_.”

“I did. I mean, I figured it’d be something like that. But hearing you say it? It’s just. Whoa. _Oh_ my god.” Hunk puts his hands together and exhales hard. _“Keith.”_

“Keith,” Lance confirms, grimacing. The man himself had slipped out after breakfast, gathering up his bundle of weird gear and mumbling thanks to Hunk for the meal, leaving Lance at the mercy of his best friend’s knowing gaze.

“How long has this been going on?”

Lance stares at his own feet, to avoid Hunk’s eyes. The mellow vibe of the reggae playlist drifting from the speakers seems to be mocking him. He has never felt less chill. “Since Altea.”

The sound Hunk makes is almost a shriek.

“Oh, shut up! We still hate each other!” Yeah, okay, that sounded _really_ defensive. _What. Ever._ “It’s not like that stopped being a thing!”

Hunk shakes his head. “Dude, you know you aren’t _obligated_ to have this Montague-Capulet beef going on with him? I don’t think anybody cares as much as you.”

Lance jabs Hunk’s ankle with his toe. “Okay, time to drop _that_ reference. I know where you’ll end up going with it, and it’s not like that.”

Hunk’s expression turns _very_ sly. “Not like what?”

Fuck. His face is burning up. “We’re not. Like. Into each other. Or anything.”

“Okay,” says Hunk, tone unnervingly neutral.

“How weird would _that_ be? We’re just … we have good sex. That’s all.”

“Oh, man,” Hunk laughs, incredulously slapping his forehead. “Ohhh, man. I just – imagine telling seventeen-year-old you that in six years’ time, you’d be _banging Keith Kogane_.”

Lance groans. “Fuck, don’t even say that.”

“I mean, I’m not judging. Keith’s cute.”

“Hunk, ew. Don’t.”

“And he’s pretty cool. I used to hang out with him sometimes, before he dropped out.”

“I know. I’m still not sure if I’ve forgiven you for that.”

“Dude, not to be blunt, but you’re the one who sucked his dick.”

At that, Lance actually screeches, leg shooting out to kick at Hunk’s knee. Hunk is laughing so hard he’s nearly in tears. “You don’t know that!”

“Oh, but I know what you like,” says Hunk, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’m actually gonna kill you,” Lance crows, kicking at Hunk a few more times, and Hunk catches Lance’s feet in his big hands, still laughing his ass off. Once they’ve calmed down, Lance does his best to rearrange his features into a semblance of solemnity. “Okay, listen. You’ve been let in on a highly confidential secret. No one else can know about this.”

“Not even Pidge?”

“Pidge wouldn’t _want_ to know!”

“Hmm. I’m not so sure. This is, like, a Pulitzer-winning story, bro.”

_“Do not tell Pidge.”_

“Psssh. Fine.”

Lance pouts for another second, then decides the time is ripe for a change of subject. “How is she, by the way?”

“She’s holding up,” Hunk says, propping his thick arms behind his head. “She’s going on a research trip with Sam and Matt, and I think she’s really looking forward to it. She’s missed them a lot.”

“That’s great. I can’t even imagine how much the whole divorce thing must have sucked for her.”

“God, I know.”

“Imagine the shitshow if my parents divorced. We’re dysfunctional enough already.”

“Your family is pretty messed up,” Hunk agrees. “But remember that you love them, et cetera.”

“Yeah. I really do.” Lance sighs. “Enjoy your idyllic family situation while you can, dude.”

Hunk hums in agreement. “I know. I have the best moms.”

“Ultimate mom squad.”

“Speaking of Pidge,” says Hunk, “I keep getting the feeling there’s something she wants to tell us. I’m trying to be chill and remind her that we love her. Not to pressure her or anything, just to make her feel comfy, y’know?”

“Really?” Lance thinks back. “I didn’t notice. But I’ll try to do that, too.”

“You have been a little scarce lately.” Hunk smirks. “I guess you were too busy having hot jungle sex with Ke—”

“You are _dead_ to me!” Lance shouts, over Hunk’s laughter.

“Oh, yeah,” Hunk goes on, once he’s settled down, and Lance has given up trying to pummel him. “Next year we’ll finally get to bring Pidge to the Castle’s anniversary thing. And it’ll be the six-hundredth, so a big one.”

“Fuck, yes. It’s going to kick ass.” Lance grins, then chews his lip. “About this year’s party, though …”

Guilt touches Hunk’s broad features. “Yeah, actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I promised I would go with Shay.”

Lance can see the struggle in Hunk’s eyes. Be a good bro and offer to let Lance tag along? Or angle for alone time with the rock girl he admires so much? God knows he deserves the latter.

“Dude, don’t worry about it. I have someone I’m going to ask, too.”

He tries not to be offended at the way Hunk visibly deflates with relief. “Oh, cool. Is it Keith?”

“What? _No._ It’s – I told you we’re not like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“We are _not_. Also, that’d have people talking, wouldn’t it?”

“It’d give me something to make a vid about, for sure.”

“Shut up, dude.”

“Really, though, take it from me: people don’t care _that_ much about what you do.”

“Huh. Should I be offended?”

“No, you should be relieved.”

“Hmm. Anyway, I’m asking the guy you all disapprove of.”

Lance fidgets, and Hunk presses his lips together, nodding slowly. A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Okay. Lance, bro, you know I have your back no matter what. Even if I don’t like your man.”

A clamp around Lance’s heart releases at Hunk’s words. He hadn’t even noticed it was there, until it dissolved. “Thanks, man.”

“Of course.” Hunk grins. “Love ya.”

 

* * *

 

Lance used to have a lot of bad nights.

Every time it happened, Hunk was the one he turned to. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d quadruple-texted, or called him on the verge of tears – _can I crash with you? Hunk, please?_

And Hunk was always so patient. An angel on earth.

Lance really, truly does not know where he’d be without him.

Then there was that time.

Enter Lance, age nineteen. Ostensibly in college, working toward that business degree. Actually in Rome, getting pissed in the sight of ancient gods. His liturgy to Bacchus. Praise be.

He doesn’t remember much from the party, besides a full moon and alcohol-sweat and balmy autumn heat.

He ended up in a shuttle, delirious, nauseated, crying. It took him above the atmosphere – unhindered by air resistance, it could zip around the world in a matter of hours. He’d been bundled into it by a girl he’d met that night, a fast friend, who held his proverbial hair back when everything came rushing up the wrong direction and he regretted every decision he’d ever made. His college friends had been off dancing somewhere, and in that moment, he’d been so grateful for the kindness of a stranger.

But by himself in the back seat, loneliness struck him like a truck barreling into his chest.

_You’ll always be alone, you know. They don’t need you – they barely need the version of you that you built just for them. He’s better than nothing, sure … but once the lights get turned back on, everybody will see the place where your face should be, and realize you don’t have one._

He curled up tighter, tried to ignore how hard his head was spinning.

Suffice to say, he was in bad shape.

There was a cab waiting for him when he landed. Traveling across the earth is also going back in time: it was still night here, not the wee hours of the morning. No rosy kiss of dawn on the horizon.

It felt almost like a second chance.

 _Here’s where I want to go,_ he told the driver.

The cab took him to Hunk’s apartment.

And Hunk was still up – thank god, he was still up. A sight for sore eyes, in cargo shorts and an old Voltron T-shirt.

He wrapped Lance in comforting, massive arms, rested his cheek on the top of Lance’s head, and let Lance nuzzle into his chest so hard it was as if he was trying to burrow into Hunk and disappear forever. It wasn’t unheard of for Hunk to yell at Lance – angry at his recklessness – but when Lance came to him like this, ragged and broken, he always received him with open arms.

Lance cleaned himself up in Hunk’s bathroom, and borrowed one of his best friend’s tees. The garment dwarfed his body and smelled like home.

He padded back into the living room, sniffling. “I don’t wanna sleep on the couch.”

“I know. It’s okay, buddy.”

They curled up in Hunk’s bed together, Lance’s head resting on Hunk’s muscular arm. Restlessness ate at him from the inside. He was still a raw mess of sadness, wasn’t quite ready to give that state of being up to healing sleep.

There was a yawning hole in Lance’s chest, and it craved filling.

He blinked his eyes open in the dark. Stared over at his best friend.

Hunk’s eyelashes were very long. His dark hair, free of the headband, fell charmingly across his face.

Lance inched closer. Curled his fingers into the fabric of Hunk’s sleeping shirt. Hunk shifted a little, nose scrunching up. Not asleep.

Breathing and the rustling of clothes always sounds louder when you’re next to someone, late at night. Lance noticed this, as he inhaled slowly through his nose.

He leaned in, and brushed his parted lips softly over Hunk’s.

Hunk’s eyes opened into slits. “Huh …”

Before he could lose his nerve, Lance dove in again, kissing deeper this time, tongue flicking over the seam of Hunk’s lips. His hands tightened their grip on Hunk’s shirt.

And maybe there was some urgency in Lance’s mouth and hands that helped Hunk understand just how desperate he was. Maybe part of Hunk needed someone too.

Whatever it was, he kissed back.

He pulled Lance closer against his body, softness covering hard muscle. They kissed and kissed, not stopping, not breathing, hands fumbling, noses bumping and legs tangling. Hunk’s body was so familiar, but closer now than ever before – Lance had never felt the shape of Hunk’s face against his own, or Hunk’s palms roaming his back, caressing every vertebra, exploring every inch.

They rolled over, putting Lance on top of Hunk – and Lance sat up in the darkness, straddling his best friend.

He could feel Hunk’s rapid heartbeat in his thighs. His own heart was racing.

Lance crossed his arms over his body, and slowly, with trembling hands, pulled the T-shirt over his head.

Hunk made a low sound, rumbling through Lance’s bones, going straight between his legs. Tentatively at first, hyper-aware of every part of his body, Lance ground down against Hunk. With another soft noise, Hunk started moving his hips in rhythm, sending pulses of warmth bleeding through Lance’s belly. He reached up to touch Lance, run his hands down his bare chest. Shivering, Lance grabbed one of those hands, kissed the palm before sucking two thick fingers into his mouth.

God. That was bliss.

When Hunk finally pulled his fingers free, strands of saliva still connecting them to Lance’s lips, Lance was already so heated from having something in his mouth that he had other ideas.

With one last, firm grind of his hips against Hunk’s crotch, Lance slid down his body, coming to rest between his knees. He leaned in, pressing his nose to the bulge at the front of Hunk’s shorts, and breathed on it, hot and damp.

Hunk sucked in a sharp breath.

“Lance, don’t.” His voice broke, and he covered his face with one big hand.

_He’s hard. He’s looking at me like I’m beautiful._

“But I want to,” Lance whispered, rubbing Hunk’s bulge through his boxers. His own voice sounded foreign to him, as strange as the entirety of the situation. Instead of reflecting too hard on it, he kissed Hunk through the fabric again – felt him twitch. “Hey. Is this okay?”

“Mmn …” A nod.

“ _Is_ this okay?”

“It’s okay.”

Lance pulled the front of Hunk’s boxers down, tugged his thick cock free, and worked it over once, twice, with his hand. Hunk’s breathing was coming fast and ragged, and Lance leaned in to gently kiss the tip, tongue darting out for little kitten licks.

“Can I keep going?” he asked, husky and low.

“Yeah,” said Hunk, quieter and more vulnerable than Lance had ever heard him.

And so Lance sucked his best friend off, a clumsy, messy blowjob full of admiration and gratitude and love – giving back the only way he knew how. Big hands cradled his head as if it were made of glass, impossibly gentle, until finally, Hunk’s cum painted the roof of his mouth.

Before Lance could lick his lips clean, he was being hauled into Hunk’s lap and kissed breathless. He gasped at the friction of Hunk’s wide thigh rubbing up between his slender legs. Hunk’s hands slid from Lance’s waist to his chest, thumbs rubbing over his hardened nipples, brown eyes cloudy with something like awe.

Then, one large palm cupped Lance’s ass, and the other dipped inside his underwear. Lance’s breath caught in his throat, and Hunk jacked him into oblivion with gentle firmness and ever so much warmth. The whole time, Lance was mewling, panting against Hunk’s neck, breathing him in, Hunk’s hair tickling his cheek and forehead.

Afterward, Lance snuggled up against Hunk’s chest, allowed himself to be enfolded in his arms. He fell asleep like that, finally exhausted in a good way. Safe and warm.

They woke up the next morning in a bed that smelled like both of them, and like sex. Hunk roused Lance from sleepiness by pressing kisses all over his tear-streaked face.

He cooked him a big hangover-curing breakfast, and they laughed and joked together as if nothing had happened at all.

Lance left with a wave and the same old jaunty Lance smile, and Hunk humored him, as always. It wasn’t until he’d been home for a few hours that the first message arrived.

**_(16:21) So am I the only one who thinks we need to talk about last night?_ **

He swallowed, face and neck flooding with heat, stomach swirling nervously. He supposed he’d known this was coming. He was even grateful, in a way. Some things are easier to do by text, even if watching those three pensive dots can feel like waiting for the guillotine.

_(16:23) no_

_(16:23) i agree. we do need to talk abt it_

**_(16:23) Okay. Here I go._ **

**_(16:24) Idk how else to say this but_ **

**_(16:24) I love you to death, man. But I’m not in love with you._ **

_(16:25) im not in love w u either._

**_(16:25) Are you sure? I won’t be mad. I just want us to be honest with each other._ **

_(16:26) im not crushing on you, hunk. honest._

_(16:26) get over urself big guy_

**_(16:26) You know I’m a catch._ **

_(16:27) true ;)_

**_(16:27) <3_ **

_(16:27) <3 <3 <3_

He waited, heart in his throat, pulse in his palms. Wondered if there was anything good he could say. Anything he should apologize for.

**_(16:32) Okay sorry I died for a few secs there. I was getting a snack_ **

_(16:32) oh u :’)_

**_(16:32) :D_ **

**_(16:32) So anyway. These things happen._ **

_(16:33) yeah they do._

**_(16:34) It doesn’t change anything. You’re my best friend in the world and I would die for you without hesitation_ **

_(16:35) me too_

_(16:35) I WON’T HESITATE, BITCH_

**_(16:35) PFFFF_ **

_(16:36) fuck. ily so much, buddy_

_(16:36) just … thank you._

**_(16:37) Of course._ **

_(16:37) im sorry for being such a shit friend_

**_(16:38) Okay first: YOU ARE NOT A SHIT FRIEND. Don’t ever say that._ **

_(16:38) :(_

**_(16:39) Please lay off the drinking tho. It’s Not Good._ **

_(16:39) yeah i know_

_(16:39) ill try_

**_(16:40) I’ll be there for you. You know that._ **

_(16:40) i know <3_

_(16:42) also sorry for being such a ho_

**_(16:42) Lol. Don’t be._ **

**_(16:42) You’re a cute ho._ **

_(16:43) :^)_

_(16:43) y thank u_

_(16:44) so r we cool?_

**_(16:44) Always._ **

_(16:45) ;-;_

_(16:45) aw shit man im getting emotional now_

**_(16:45) <3_ **

**_(16:46) You wanna watch romcoms and cry?_ **

_(16:46) FUCK yes_

_(16:46) sign me UP_

_(16:47) my place @ 8?_

**_(16:47) I’ll be there <3_ **

_(16:47) yaassss <3_

 

* * *

 

There are certain simple pleasures in life that Lance thinks are important to make time for. Such as sampling snacks and teas and spiked coffees in the private bar-lounge of an orbiting hotel, with a handsome man looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters. Those things, he firmly believes, are good for the human soul.

“So,” he says, stirring whatever his current beverage is with the ridiculously dainty spoon, “will you be taking me to the Castle’s anniversary ball?”

“You want to go with me?” Amusement in the curl of Lotor’s lips.

“It’s where we first met.” Lance turns on his most velvety bedroom eyes, blinks their depths of ocean blue. “I think it would be nice to go back. Who knows what might happen this time?”

His heartbeat quickens at his own words. He licks his lips, unthinking, mind already buzzing at the edges.

Speaking of pleasures – he needs to go for it with Lotor, and soon. He can’t string him along forever. Sure, their dates are always fun, but he reminds himself of why he’s doing this in the first place – because of a gorgeous voice captivating him, because of long white hair and a fanged smirk, because of a fantasy about bodies, different but the same, rolling against one another in sweat and heat and desire.

Yeah. He _definitely_ needs to go for it.

They’ve kissed. Touched each other outside of their clothes as if there were no clothes at all. Slid their hands underneath shirts, sometimes. Lance has let Lotor squeeze his ass in the back of a limo-shuttle, done a fair bit of squeezing of his own. But whenever hands toyed with his buttons or hinted at stroking down between his legs, Lance would put a stop to it. _Let’s save the main course for a more special dinner date, hmmm?_

Despite his acting like the tease of the century, somehow, miraculously, the guy hasn’t lost interest.

_He even laughs at my jokes. Fucking incredible._

So. It’s about damn time.

He nudges Lotor’s foot under the table. It’s pretty disgusting – the kind of gross couple-y thing Lotor will let him indulge in. “Well, what do you say?”

Lotor grins. “I’d be honored to take you.”

 _Take me, huh?_ The ambiguity knocks the breath right out of Lance. “Um. Perfect. Sweet.”

“By the way …” Lotor reaches into the pocket of his earth-style suit; he knows Lance likes the look, so he’s started wearing it more often. “I have something for you.”

Lance smirks as he takes the slim velvet box out of Lotor’s hands. “Oh, wow. Is it my birthday?”

Lotor laughs, flashing sharp white canines, face so handsome it has Lance’s stomach in permanent knots. His purple skin is smooth, almost poreless, and his hair is braided neatly out of his face in an elaborate waterfall arrangement, the thick length of it spilling over his broad shoulders. _He could kick me in the face and I’d thank him._ “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Not for a while. I’ll take the present, though.” Shooting him an affectionate look, Lance cracks open the slender case, and peers inside.

The watch is laid out flat and glittering, its newness so palpable Lance swears he can _smell_ it. The band, made from links of dark metal, shimmers like an oil-slick in the light. It’s clearly an alien mineral, and it reminds him of meteorites: precious rock hurtling, impervious, through the stars. The clock face is a rich, royal blue, studded with tiny, paler-blue stones around the rim, and the hands and numbers – Earth time alongside galactic standard – gleam brighter than silver.

For a moment, he can’t speak. All he hears is the din of irrelevant conversation and the music from the band: melancholy sax and a bassline throbbing sweet like his own heartbeat.

He swallows. Finds his voice again.

“Wow.”

“Do you like it?” Lotor is smiling faintly, one corner of his mouth pulled up, cheek resting against his fist.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Scaultrite studs. Planetsheart band. Platinum detail.”

Lance tilts it back and forth under the light. “This looks custom.”

“It is.”

“Shit.” He tries to estimate a price, and his mind boggles. Staggering, even for him. Lance whistles. “Guess I’m benching my Rolex.”

Lotor’s laughter rings out again, clear and high.

“Help me put it on?” Lance asks sweetly, extending his wrist.

Gingerly, with the tips of his long fingers, Lotor takes the watch out of its casing. He wraps it neatly around Lance’s outstretched wrist, fastening the clasp. The metal surface is cool against Lance’s bare skin. Once molten and white-hot, it’s now chilled and dead and his for the taking, forged into a decoration for his slender human arm.

Lotor’s fingers linger briefly on Lance’s skin once he’s finished. Then he pulls back to take another sip of his drink.

Lance takes a moment to admire the timepiece. It’s ornate. A work of goddamn art.

His.

He glances up. “Are you trying to buy my favor, so I’ll hurry up and sleep with you?”

The playful lilt to his words is mirrored by the sparkle in Lotor’s eyes.

“Yes. Is it working?”

Chuckling, Lance reaches across the table, taking Lotor’s hand in his. He brings it to his lips, brushes feathery kisses over the knuckles, looking up plaintively into Lotor’s eyes. Lotor’s teeth dimple his bottom lip, ever-so-slightly, an involuntary response that fills Lance with sweet contentment.

Lance turns Lotor’s hand over, and presses a final kiss to his palm.

“You bet.”

 

* * *

 

When the hololink call comes in, Keith takes it unthinkingly, without bothering to check who it’s from. As a result, he nearly has a heart attack when Lance’s head and shoulders materialize in his room.

“Hey,” Lance says.

“I, uh … hi?” _Nice job!_

“So, listen. I’m assuming you’re going to the anniversary thing at the Castle, because you’re always around to ruin anything I enjoy—”

“Was there a point to this?”

“Um. Yeah. I figured you’d just show up in the same old black suit as always, so I thought I’d offer to help out.”

“I … what?”

“I’m offering to take you shopping. It might …” Lance swallows, rubs the back of his neck. “… help you take your mind off things. You know, _things_.” He widens his eyes pointedly, makes a bizarre gesture with his hands on either side of his head that Keith guesses is supposed to emulate the shape of Thace’s ears. Lance clears his throat, brings his hands back down. “I mean, if your mind is still on those things. I dunno. Sorry, this was weird of me.”

Keith’s skin feels electrified suddenly. Still, something inside him immediately resists.

Isn’t this the same as Lance’s arm at that café, slung so casually around Keith’s shoulders? It looked accidental, but still managed to hold him up.

Is this Lance’s way of showing concern?

A voice like Shiro’s, in his head. _You don’t need to do everything by yourself, you know._

Keith swallows, looks into the hologram flicker of Lance’s dark blue eyes.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Cool.” Lance’s face melts into an easy grin. “So, here’s my plan …”

 

* * *

 

The department store – part of a larger space station complex, as so many fixtures are these days – is made up of a towering twenty-two tiers, connected by gleaming escalators and elevators flashing past in transparent tubes.

Keith’s been to similar places before, but not often – most of his clothes have been custom-tailored and sent directly to his home – so he can’t help but goggle a little. He has to make the conscious, embarrassing decision to close his gaping mouth.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Lance turns his head toward Keith, bright-eyed, grinning. The gesture exposes the sharp cut of his jaw, skintone warm against crisp white fabric. His trousers are kept in place by suspenders, and they hug his narrow hips, emphasize his waist and his—

Well. They look good on him. Keith hopes he isn’t sweating.

“Okay, new threads first, other stuff later,” Lance says, and glances over at Keith. Their eyes catch.

Keith meant for the look to be brief, to only linger for a second. But Lance had the same idea, and their gazes get tangled up in each other for too long. Lance sucks his lip into his mouth and—

Weird. Gross. Keith tears his eyes away, glancing down instead.

That turns out to be a hopeless move, because Lance’s shirtsleeves are rolled up, and Keith can’t help but notice that his forearms are more tanned than the rest of him …

… and he’s wearing a watch Keith hasn’t seen before, gaudy and bright. It looks valuable enough to buy a galaxy.

Keith nods at it, shoots Lance a teasing grin. “That the kind of flashy shit you splurge on? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Actually,” Lance sniffs, wrapping his wrist protectively in his other hand, “it was a gift.”

Keith’s gut prickles with unease. “Oh? Aren’t you too old to be spoiled by your grandma?”

“For your information: no, never. And it was from someone I’m seeing, since you seem so keen to know,” Lance shoots back. He isn’t meeting Keith’s eyes, and bites his lip, as if trying to retroactively trap the words inside his mouth. Too late.

It’s suddenly hard for Keith to catch his breath.

_You knew he’s a player. A proper slut._

_He’s never pretended to be anything else._

_You don’t care. Why should you care?_

He doesn’t. Care, that is. And that’s the end of it.

Lance looks uncomfortable, suddenly, and it makes Keith’s stomach sink – sometimes he feels like his one talent is frightening people off with his intensity.

He tries again. “So, um. Where were we going, again?”

Lance relaxes a little at that, and gestures for Keith to follow. They ride an elevator straight up into a clothing store so huge it occupies the entire floor. Lance walks right past the racks of garments, hung so neatly Keith is sure there must be measured spaces between each one, over to an open section with large, floor-length mirrors.

Lance positions Keith in front of a mirror, and summons a glowing interface with a swipe of his hand.

“All right, let’s check you out.”

A glowing grid-pattern appears on Keith’s reflection, mapping itself to his body, then vanishes. Lance presses a few buttons, and mirror-Keith loses the plain black suit, ending up instead in a neutral, long-sleeved starting outfit.

Lance clicks his tongue. “Okay. Want me to dress you up like the old Queens of England? An Arusian warlord?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Just get on with it.”

Lance starts off by playing around, watching the clothes he selects materialize on mirror-Keith’s body. He cycles through some truly ridiculous options – putting Keith in khaki shorts and an aloha shirt that clashes with his glare (“Chill, Keith, you’re on vacation”), and a stupid risqué outfit with a plunging neckline that has Keith scowling and Lance falling silent for a solid minute before he clears his throat loudly and moves on.

They scroll through what seems like miles of formalwear, Keith dying on the inside. The suits all look the same to him. Still, Lance’s sharp gaze scrutinizes him from head to toe, dismissing nine options out of ten.

Lance pauses, finally, on a suit that’s vivid blue. “Hey. This looks good on you. Great cut.” He shifts his feet, rubs the back of his head. “One of my favorite colors.”

It doesn’t surprise Keith that Lance likes it – it’s _very_ intense. “I don’t know …”

“I know black is like, your brand.” Lance looks him up and down in the mirror. “But some color suits you.”

Keith’s face seems to agree, swiftly turning a blotchy pink. “Blue isn’t really …”

“No, trust me.” In the mirror, Lance’s eyes meet Keith’s. “It looks good.”

“Whatever you say,” Keith mutters.

They spend another chunk of time looking at different alternatives, but in the end, it turns out that Lance can be very convincing.

Or maybe Keith is just weak.

He buys the blue suit.

After Keith’s order has been placed and slated to be sent back to his home, they stroll leisurely around the massive, opulent building, dipping into random stores. Keith takes in the sights: ceilings so high you’d have to fly to touch them, gleaming railings, storefronts with minimalist logos that promise exclusivity and class. Lance seems at home here, the slope of his shoulders casually relaxed under his white shirt. Keith’s are climbing toward his ears – he should be used to it by now, but part of him still feels like an imposter in these places.

He sticks out on the lower levels now, though – the one who’d get his pockets picked, instead of being the one doing the picking. He doesn’t really belong in either world.

Lance belongs, though, and some of it seems to be rubbing off on him.

He has fun.

In one of the cheaper clothing stores, the kind where they won’t take your hand off for touching the goods, Lance tries on an enormous floppy hat and bug-like sunglasses, then does an imitation of a posh old white woman that is so frighteningly accurate that Keith can’t help but buckle over laughing.

They read the backs of print books in the Earth-language sections, discovering a shared affinity for Westerns and nonfiction about spaceships – although Keith doesn’t understand Lance’s love of trashy space opera, and Lance disdains Keith gravitating toward classics.

(“Why are all my friends such huge nerds?”

“We’re friends?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”)

They pass an establishment that Keith doesn’t really have a word for – _pampering salon_ , maybe? Fuck knows – and would normally have walked right by. But Lance, of course, stops in front of it.

“C’mon. Let’s treat ourselves.”

“What?” Realization sinks in, and his eyes widen in horror. “Lance, no.”

“Lance, yes.”

“I just – I don’t really like that stuff.”

Part of Keith is inherently resistant to the thought of being … _primped_. It’s the same part of him that recoils at the thought of wearing dresses or frills. Sometimes it makes him feel like an asshole – he knows those things are in no way related to how much of a man he is – but still, something in him petulantly refuses.

He supposes he kind of likes being rugged.

The look Lance gives Keith’s rugged self, though, is thoroughly unimpressed. “Right. So do you like being crusty?”

“Cru— _what_?”

Rolling his eyes, Lance gestures at his own smooth, clear face. “Listen, you think looks this good are _natural_? Nuh-uh. You gotta _work_ for it.”

And if there’s one thing Keith is realizing, it’s that, when it comes to stupid things like this, he’s incredibly bad at telling Lance no.

That is how he finds himself reclining in a plush chair while an alien with cool, amphibian hands cakes a goopy mixture onto his face. He’s not sure he’s ever been so out of his element, and is thankful that he at least refused the foot bath that Lance is enjoying beside him.

“You’re going to look so good at the party, Keith,” says Lance. “You’re fucking welcome, in advance.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“My pleasure. You taking a date, for once in your life?”

“No. Or, I mean, I’m just going with Shiro.”

“Geez. You’re wasting your potential. And your youth.”

“Well, sorry. We can’t all be you.”

“That’s true.”

“You’re taking someone.” It’s not a question.

“Uh, yeah.” Lance’s voice smaller, suddenly.

“Whoever gave you that watch?” Keith wants the words to come out light-hearted, but what exits his mouth sounds snide.

Lance hesitates for a second too long. “… yeah.”

“Hm.” The mask is tight on his face. Feels like it could crack at any second. “Someone special?”

“Could be.” An edge of insecurity in Lance’s tone.

It’s better to stop talking about this. They both seem to agree, and the subject drops. The rest of the goo-and-patting ordeal is spent in silence.

Keith hates to admit it, but after the treatment, his face does feel refreshed and soft. No wonder Lance is always so luminous.

It marks the end of whatever this was, and they start traipsing back to the shuttle bay. Lance buys a smoothie along the way – made from some alien fruit, slightly phosphorescent – and slurps heartily, offering it to Keith and looking almost surprised when he actually leans over and takes a sip from Lance’s straw.

In the bay, they face each other. Lance’s eyes run Keith up and down. _I will not fidget._

“So, see you at the party later,” Lance says.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Don’t forget who made you look this hot.”

“I’ll be sure to thank my birth mother, whoever she may be.”

A smile tugs at Lance’s mouth, neutralizing his eye-roll. “God, I’m so done here. Later, loser.”

“Bye, Lance.”

Lance turns to walk toward the ship that will take him home. Keith starts to climb into the back of his own shuttle, and can’t help but glance over his shoulder.

And catches Lance’s eye. He’s looking back, too.

They both turn away at the same time, getting into their respective ships and sliding doors shut behind them. Keith leans back on the smooth leather seat, closing his eyes.

There’s a fizz under his skin, like soda pop. It seems like it’s there to stay.

 

* * *

 

Lance has decided on a confrontation.

With Lance’s own access to company records, and Pidge’s system skills to back him up, finding the man who owed Keith’s family wasn’t hard.

When he spots Lance waiting for him at HQ, he startles so hard his glasses nearly fall clean off his face.

“Relax,” Lance says. “I’m not here to eat you. I just wanted to talk about your debt.”

The man looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Don’t worry. Listen, I’ll pay it off in full.” Disbelieving relief starts to fill those watery eyes, and Lance’s tone hardens. “But go behind our backs again, and I will personally make sure you’re out on your ass.”

“Of course, Mr. Álvarez. I – I am so sorry.”

“So. What was that sketchy business of yours? Remember, I hold your livelihood in the palm of my hand.”

Nervous sweat dripping down his face, the man swallows.

“I – I was … siphoning, sir. Diverting shipments …”

“What kind of shipments?”

His eyes, rabbit-wide. Staring, mutely.

_“What kind of shipments?”_

His lips tremble, but no words come out. He looks like he’s going to piss himself at any second. Lance knows a hopeless case when he sees one. He isn’t a fucking gangster. Not a Kogane, shaking people down in alleys.

“Fine,” he snarls, pulls his chin up in a show of intimidation. “But remember who saved your ass.”

 _I’m too soft,_ he thinks, as he stalks off. Maybe he can shoot a gun, but not much else.

He’s curious now, though. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to message Pidge.

_hey 1337 h4xx0r_

_i have a favor to ask_

 

* * *

 

The night of the party arrives.

It’s not a night, really, since time is relative here. It’s more of an extended time period where the entire Castle is alive with activity: promotions and giveaways, performances and parades.

Lance and Hunk watched a dance show, played in a raffle, and ran wild at the amusement park together before returning here to meet their respective dates. They probably won’t be seeing much of each other tonight, which is just as well – introducing Hunk to Lotor is a bit more than Lance can stomach – but he’s sure Hunk will have a good time with his favorite rock.

Right on cue, Hunk’s expression lights up. “Holy shit, there’s Shay. I’m gonna go get her.” He squeezes Lance’s shoulder. “Be safe, buddy.”

“Always.”

Hunk hurries off to join up with Shay. Her gestures are so surprisingly gentle for such a large person, and his face is bright as the sun. Lance smiles to himself, and waits by the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping impatiently.

His heart does a little stutter in his chest when hands land softly on his upper arms, and he feels the press of lips against his temple.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Liquid voice in his ear.

“Hey,” he grins, and turns in Lotor’s arms.

He looks so goddamned good.

He’s in the same type of garment he was wearing when they visited Quintessence: slim-fitting and unadorned, elegant in its simplicity, it has wide padded shoulders that peak into slight tips. The jacket reaches the tops of his thighs, cinching in at the waist, and the black fabric shimmers bronze like a beetle’s carapace when he moves.

And his hair is down. Oh, yes.

“Aren’t you punctual,” Lotor says.

Lance pointedly shows off his left wrist, where the watch wraps it. “Mm. Sure am.”

He links his arm with Lotor’s, and sticks his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. He’s not a simpering armpiece, he keeps telling himself – although part of him kind of wants to be, to cling to Lotor and gaze up at him adoringly. Who can blame him? The guy’s _smokin’_.

They wander over to the tables lining the center of the room, to explore the selection of drinks. Lotor’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder the entire time, and Lance loves it.

Just as Lance is reaching for the stem of a glass, he brushes against dark brown fingers that, evidently, had the same idea. He looks up into bright and intelligent turquoise eyes.

“Well, hello, Princess.”

Allura’s dress is an incredible creation, a dark-grey seafoam spill. It tightens at the bodice, snaking around one arm and leaving the other bare, its tendrils moving up her chest and neck as if grasping for her glitter-encrusted face.

“Lance! Hello!”

“The ladies in here are lucky tonight,” Lance says, with an appreciative nod at her outfit. Her laughter rings out, clear as a bell.

“Why, thank you. So is …” Her gaze flicks up, noting who he’s with, and her expression becomes carefully guarded. “… Lotor.”

Her voice calibrated, carefully noncommittal. Could be neutral. Could be a front for distaste.

“Allura.” A fanged grin in response. The skin around Allura’s mouth tightens. “You look radiant.”

“Thank you. You look … content.”

“Aren’t I always?”

He’s on a first-name basis with Allura. Princess Allura. Hmm.

Allura offers Lotor a cool smile before her eyes return to Lance. _Wow, this isn’t awkward at all._ “How are you enjoying this evening, Lance?”

 _Lahnce_. They both say his name that way. Both of these tall, slender, white-haired babes. It makes his toes curl inside their polished, pointed shoes. Makes him embarrassingly aware of how fucking bisexual he is. _Don’t be gross now. Please._

“I’m loving it. But I always do.”

Something in her smile is genuinely fond. “I’m glad to hear it. And I think I’ll be moving on, if you don’t mind. I’m expected somewhere.”

“Knock ’em dead. Take care, Princess.”

Her eyes bore into him. “You too, Lance.”

“Great, isn’t she?” says Lotor, as she glides away. Lance really can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“She sure is,” Lance affirms.

 

* * *

 

Whatever Keith expected from this evening, it wasn’t having to drag Shiro away from one of the shooting galleries in Blue. (“Sir, I’m a trained soldier, and this game is _rigged_ —” “Come on, Shiro, just drop it.” “But clearly it’s—” “What do you want a cutesy stuffed animal for, anyway?”) But he finally managed, and here they are now, to get refreshments.

A soft blue glow permeates the reception hall, emanating from hovering spheres kept lit by some strange chemistry. Coran is working the bar, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he tosses bottles and pours amber liquors over ice cubes with diodes at their centers, illuminating the drinks from within.

There’s a big crowd, for sure – a billowing sea of vibrant fabrics and gently drifting bodies – but still, Keith spots him from across the room.

He’s dressed in dazzling white. The color beautifully offsets the warm browns of his skin and hair. He’s laughing – a bright smile that matches his suit, and doesn’t reach his eyes.

Next to him – a big, slender man, taller than Lance by a head, his dark clothes a stark contrast against Lance’s. A shock of snow-white hair down his back. Purple skin. Galra.

It turns Keith’s insides to ice.

He had expected a woman. Older, maybe – that seems like it’d be Lance’s style. Not this. Not a man whose looks are best described as devastating.

Not a man who is Galra.

_Why can’t I get away from them?_

Keith watches, unable to look away. The Galra’s hand touches Lance’s elbow, cupping it. Lance turns to him with a grin so saucy it drips, reaches up to tuck a nonexistent strand of stray hair behind his ear. The watch on his wrist flashes in the light.

Keith’s belly tightens. The sounds of the room around him seem to fade, as if his ears are filled with water.

Emotion has always been full-body for Keith, painful and immersive. It’s so stupid, but he feels his chest collapsing in on itself, an avalanche carving a void inside him.

Why is his throat so hot and tight? Why is it so hard to swallow?

All this, over someone who’s … what?

Not a one-night stand, not anymore.

Not quite an enemy.

Not quite a friend.

Fuck. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. Contrary to popular opinion, Keith doesn’t _brood_. If something’s bothering him, he does something about it.

A petty little gremlin wakes up inside him.

Who says he can’t do some flirting of his own?

He is, in fact, wearing the deep blue suit Lance picked out. He’s still not sure how he feels about how flashy it is, but it’s getting him a lot of looks. He can use that.

So Keith smiles at people who approach him, and doesn’t move away if their hands brush against his shoulders or arms. He even allows himself the dark satisfaction of cocking his hip just slightly or stretching out his slender neck, and then watching someone’s eyes glaze over as they slide up his trim body. He doesn’t have Lance’s gift for sweet-talk, but he does have big eyes and pale skin and a certain quiet magnetism.

He isn’t oblivious. He’s done this before. Keith’s attractive and enjoys physical intimacy, and more than once, he’s snared a boy and taken him back somewhere to fuck him senseless.

So, yeah. Keith has his own game to play.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Shiro says dryly, as Keith lets a hapless girl – cute, if he was into that, which he is not – drift out of his halo, a little wobbly on her legs.

“Can’t I have fun?” Keith asks, teasing edge to his voice, and gives Shiro’s arm a playful nudge.

Shiro’s thick eyebrows draw together. “What brought this on?”

Keith does not cast his eyes around for Lance, because it doesn’t matter if Lance is watching. “Are you going to ask me stupid questions, or humor me and let me have a good time?”

Before Shiro can answer, Keith is already exchanging smiles with a handsome young man. And sure enough, he comes over and offers to buy Keith a drink at the bar.

This isn’t too hard.

If he wanted to, he could totally get laid.

He doesn’t want to.

But Keith decides to keep drawing in the crowds. At least that way, everybody will be stuck wanting what they can’t have.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, Lance and Lotor get caught up with some girls Lotor knows – there are hordes of them, everywhere he goes. Some of them look distinctly intrigued by the fact that Lance is clearly _with_ him, with him, and he can’t help but feel a little bit smug.

He’s kind of half listening to the conversation when the crowd parts, and Lance sees a very familiar shade of blue.

Keith’s wearing the suit he chose. Lance’s insides get twisted up in the same odd fit of acrobatics as the first time he saw him in it, in the virtual mirror. It looks even better on him in real life. The bright color is a beautiful contrast against his black hair, and although Lance can’t see it from here, he knows from earlier that it brings out the bluer hues in Keith’s dark eyes.

The whole thing was a rare moment of clairvoyance, on Lance’s part: Keith matches the damn décor.

He fits in perfectly.

Everyone seems to think so. Keith is talking to a guy who looks absolutely stoked to have his attention. He’s not sure if Keith is doing it to spite him – wearing the clothes Lance picked out to draw every eye in the room – but he can’t even bother to feel slighted. It’s not like he can blame them for looking at something that good …

And Keith’s eyes flick to him.

Their gazes meet, for a split second. Keith’s expression is unreadable, his dark eyes bottomless like forest pools.

It sends a strangely hollow feeling echoing through Lance’s chest.

He becomes acutely aware that he is looking at Keith _Kogane_ , emphasis on the latter. There’s a wall between them, high and impassable and painfully transparent. It’s hard to imagine there was a different Keith, messy-haired and pink-cheeked, devouring breakfast in Lance’s kitchen, after a night spent sleeping with Lance cradled in his arms.

Lance swallows. Swallows again.

He has a brief flash of delusion – of having Keith here on his own arm. Which is stupid, and desperate on every level. He writes it off immediately, shakes his head as if to dislodge the thought.

Still. He sneaks another glance.

The other dude seems to have moved on, leaving Keith with Shiro. Keith tosses his head prettily, laughing uncharacteristically loud at whatever Shiro said. His hand ghosts out, brushes against the shirtsleeve concealing Shiro’s mechanical arm, and squeezes gently.

Can that arm feel things?

Lance remembers Keith snarling in his face, minutes before the first time they ended up in bed together.

_I wonder what he does to you with that Galra hand when you're alone._

“Huh,” Lance huffs, crossing his arms over his tightening chest. Keith bites his lip ever-so-slightly and tilts his head to the side as Shiro talks, hand still resting on his arm, his entire face just so … _kissable_. Lance can’t be the only one seeing it, right? “Whatever.”

“Did you say something?” Lotor asks, and Lance is reminded that he’s there.

“Uh, no. Never mind.” He’s here with his hot man. Keith Kogane can’t take that away from him. With this at the forefront of his mind, he turns back to Lotor. “I think I need some air.”

“Sure.”

They go outside, into the park, full of vendors selling snacks and mingling people. Fireworks explode across the sky-beneath-a-sky, chemical combustion morphing into sparkling lions chasing one another, roaring, and finally dissolving into a glittering rain. Their light illuminates Lotor’s face, drains it of all color – a classical marble statue, unblinking and impossibly handsome.

He’s so beautiful. So messed up. So hard to grasp. Something about him is almost intangible, and something within Lance is inexplicably drawn to that.

It’s so very different from Keith. Keith is all raw realness, rough hands gripping his hips and soft lips ghosting over his forehead.

With Keith, Lance feels peculiarly flayed, the skin of his chest peeled away from his ribs and pinned open that way for all to see. Admiration, guilt, and petty, petty jealousy, all there, clear as fucking day.

It scares him. It scares the shit out of him.

Lotor, on the other hand, is someone Lance can meet in a hall of smoke and mirrors. A surreal safe space, separated from reality by a film of otherworldly desire.

Looking at him now, he feels that desire pulsing in his core.

_God, I want him. I want him bad._

“Hey,” Lance says, just loud enough for Lotor to hear him. “You wanna get out of here?”

Lotor looks faintly amused. “We just got out, and you want to go back inside?”

“No.” His breath feels heavy in his chest. “I … I want to be alone with you.”

Lotor’s eyebrows arch, his mouth forming a silent _ah_. When he extends his arm, Lance takes it.

They make their way back through the Castle, after Lance insists he doesn’t want to stay. An elevator lets them bypass the main hall and go directly to the bay, where they get into Lotor’s luxurious private shuttle.

Its interior looks like a miniature club: plush black seats, a little bar area, and a state-of-the-art sound system, all sleek lines and brand-new tech. Tiny lights twinkle softly on the ceiling, their own personal starry sky.

They’ve felt each other up in here before, but nevertheless, Lance sits down opposite Lotor, so that he can stare him down.

“Where to?” says Lotor, with a flicker of a smile.

“Nuh-uh. Wait a sec. There’s one last conversation we need to have.” Extending his leg, Lance props the heel of his shoe on top of Lotor’s crotch, and grinds it in. Lotor sucks in a sharp breath.

Foot still in place, Lance leans over to the bar-counter beside him, and takes his time pouring himself a drink.

“I’m not letting you get your hands on me until we come clean with each other,” Lance goes on, and can’t help but feel pleased at the accidental double entendre. “Do you know what this is about?”

Pained smirk from Lotor, as Lance rotates his heel in a slow circle, and takes a sip of his champagne. “I can guess.”

“All right.” In a moment of mercy, Lance removes his foot. Several heartbeats pass, the seconds standing at the cliff’s edge before flinging oneself into the waiting air. “Are you the Galra Prince?”

That smirk widens just a smidgen. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Oh, is this how we’re gonna play it? Half-answers and mystery? Okay.” Lance drains the glass, sets it back down on the counter, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Listen closely. I’m too rich to gold-dig. I already have everything I could possibly want to buy. And I assure you becoming King Zarkon’s son-in-law has never been my secret dream. I don’t _care_ , Lotor. I just wanna know you.”

And something about his plaintive tone gets through.

“Fine.” Lotor lifts his chin. The smooth line of his neck and shoulders is positively regal. _Yeah,_ Lance thinks, dizzy all of a sudden. _It is obvious._ “Yes. I’m _Prince_ Lotor. Heir apparent to the Galra throne. Bearer of titles plentiful and stupid.”

Oh. Oh wow.

Even though he’d seen it coming, Lance still feels as if he’s been punched in the gut.

Lance’s royal fling rolls his eyes like a sulky teenager. “Anything else?”

He finds his voice. “Uh, _yeah_. Why doesn’t anyone ever call you _Your Majesty_?”

“Outside Galra space, why should they?” He examines his nails; Lance gets the feeling the gesture isn’t as nonchalant as it looks. “And I don’t really enjoy that kind of attention.”

 _Bullshit. You love attention._ A slow realization creeps up on Lance. _And people know who you are. They kiss your ass because of it._

Being unsure if you even _like_ your position, while also relying on it completely? Yeah. Been there.

“You seem to have an awful lot of time on your hands. For an heir.” Lance raises his eyebrows. “You know, the constant partying …”

Lotor sniffs. “Yes, well, suffice to say that when it comes to official business, my presence isn’t always wanted.”

An echoing twinge shoots through Lance’s chest.

Assigned a pointless sinecure position, “for the time being,” waiting for something different, something meaningful. He knows he’s not the only one in that situation, but being one of them – one of the people deemed useless, _just for now_ – stings enough. It stings even more that he’s taken advantage of it, that he’d rather indulge in an idle life where his only job is to show up at meetings and parties, than put his shoulder to the wheel and fight for something better.

_If you’re so concerned about things that make us look bad, sleep in your own bed for once in your life._

“Believe it or not,” Lance says, “I know the feeling.”

Lotor’s lips twitch in a way that says _I wouldn’t count on it._

There’s no time for Lance to be offended, though. He already knew that Lotor has more issues than Vogue.

“Hey,” Lance says. “I told you, this doesn’t change anything.” He gets up and crosses over to the other seat, sits down beside Lotor. He cups Lotor’s face in his hands, runs his thumb over the corner of his lips. The barest hint of a pulse flutters under his skin. “You’re still one sexy asshole. Still the best time I’ve ever had.”

A low chuckle, at that. “You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe. I know it gets you going, though.” His other hand plays with the hem of Lotor’s jacket, the stiff material satiny between his fingertips. “But you know, I’d be lying if I said this isn’t an upgrade for me,” he murmurs, glancing up through his eyelashes. “I’ve never fucked a prince before.”

Lotor’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, denting it deliciously.

“Would you like to?”

In response, Lance leans in and kisses him – long and deep and filthy. The look they exchange afterward is so heated, he’s surprised it isn’t singeing the ends of his hair.

“Hell, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Keith needs a break.

He stalks through the Castle at a quick pace, trying to work up a sweat, get his heart racing for purely physical reasons. Not because he saw Lance Álvarez leaving with someone else.

Yeah, he tried to distract himself. But in the end, it always leads back to this.

Before long, he finds himself back in the main hall. The massive lion heads surround him, hulking and indifferent. He feels tiny, staring up at their gaping maws.

Keith enters Red: home of the unsavory, the borderline, the sometimes-wanted, sometimes-shunned. Lets brisk steps take him through a long, velvety corridor, deep into the bowels of the Castle.

He wants to watch a fight. Wants to force his own bloodlust to peak. Anything to feel capable, powerful, at one with the strength sleeping in his body. Anything to get away from the sucking helplessness deep inside his core.

_Look at me and only me._

It’s a ridiculous feeling. He already knows it leads nowhere. A character flaw, his own to work on.

He’d felt it with Shiro. It was unfair then.

He’d felt it with other boys, the ones he laid claim to once he’d learned firsthand what passion was, and realized he couldn’t get enough of it. It was unfair then, too.

_We’re just fucking, Kogane. Relax. I’m not your goddamn boyfriend._

He’s feeling it now.

It’s a bad habit: fixating, imprinting, unable to focus on more than one thing at a time. It can mislead him, delude him into reading too much into the bittersweet flutter-throb of his heart at the memory of aquarium lights and hot, fast breathing and skin sliding over skin.

Breakfast in bed doesn’t mean anything. Breakfast out of it means even less.

Keith’s nails dig white-hot crescents into his palms. There’s something lodged between his ribs and his throat, looming like a rain cloud, growing.

“Fuck,” he curses, under his breath. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere: he isn’t sure where he is anymore, lost in a featureless place, done all in deep purplish-red colors, like being inside someone’s heart.

“Don’t be alarmed,” a voice says.

Keith nearly jumps clean out of his skin. His hackles shoot up, every nerve bristling, eyes bulging, blood raring for a fight.

He spins around to face—

_Galra. He’s Galra._

Shit. Keith was so caught up in his own emotions that he hadn’t even noticed he was there, hadn’t even picked up on the usual paranoid premonition. Not good.

This person is dressed in the same discreet armor as Thace, but his skin is paler, his ears slim and pointed, a comb of soft white hair on his head. The look in his eerie yellow eyes is full of intent.

“My name is Ulaz. I’m of the Blade.”

Automatically, Keith’s hand drifts to his jacket, hovering over the spot where he now keeps Thace’s knife side by side with his own. His heart is knocking at his ribcage, bruising and insistent, as if it’s trying to ram its way out.

“What do you want?”

Ulaz’s eyes have no pupils. Somehow, though, it’s obvious that he is staring straight into Keith’s soul.

“Our leader wants to meet with you. It’s time for you to get some answers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment, feed a writer! Talking w u guys is what makes this whole mess worth it <3
> 
> (((Also I’m gonna take one (1) second to be greedy and just say that if any of u ever message ur friends while/after reading this fic, I’M SUPER CURIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE SAYING AND I’D SELL MY SOUL FOR EXCERPTS SJGKDLSDGJ)))
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com), where u can encourage me to churn the next chapter out before season 3. It’s gonna be gross, you guys. So, so gross. *rubs hands together*


	8. Violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I really hope you guys enjoy weirdly vanilla alien sex because that's what you're getting lol bye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOTY HOO. BUCKLE IN LADS CUZ I'VE GOT A LOT TO SAY.
> 
> SO HOW ABOUT THAT SEASON 3 EH??? I'm fucking overjoyed, bc apparently I am clairvoyant and predicted Lotor's personality almost perfectly. fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck yeahhh. "Will Lotor's generals be in this fic?" you ask? Yes, I answer, because I FUCKING ADORE THEM, but only toward the very, very end, since I didn't originally have any roles designed for them and I don't want to shoehorn them in.
> 
>  **Warnings:** This is definitely the heaviest chapter this far. It's angsty, dark, and a little bit gory at the end (the person hurt is a nameless side character). Idk, I'm just figuring anyone who's gotten this far in this fic isn't easily upset and can handle it, but if you read it and think it warrants any special heads-ups, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know. Oh, and it also features probably the longest sex scene I've ever written in my life. What do you mean it's a self insert I have no idea what you're talking about hahhaa
> 
> MUSIC. OH BOY. SO MUCH MUSIC FOR THIS CHAPTER.  
> Lotor #1: [Call Me Devil - Friends In Tokyo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2Doxtmwhhs)  
> Lotor #2: [Runnin' - Adam Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHicliUheO4)  
> Lancelot #1: [After Party - Adore Delano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaklULGBoDw) (I've been looping the fuck out of this but for the love of gOD WEAR HEADPHONES SDGJLSDG)  
> Lancelot #2: [Hotter Than Hell - Dua Lipa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEOyePhElr4)  
> Lancelot #3: [Just A Little Bit - Kids Of 88](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWm9v9Bh0b0) ("get off your throne i want you alone" just fuck me up mate)  
> Keith: [Control - Halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so8V5dAli-Q)
> 
> as u know by now, all of these can be found on the [fic playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/choldertoned/playlist/3Btl6eqfF3dykFDS8a3mA4)
> 
> now. god. please enjoy the FUCK out of this, you guys. :^)

He was raised a prince, but some days, he felt as if he’d been born into jealousy and inadequacy.

There was something off about him, and they never let him forget it. He was smaller than most, and had those odd reddish marks on his cheeks and waist and shoulders.

Those, he learned, came from his mother. The mother who left to pursue her own dreams, science always brighter in her mind than a man and child on a homeworld shut off from everything she knew and loved. She departed from Daibazaal without looking back, and if it broke her heart, she never told him.

A runt. An outcast. If it wasn’t for who his father was, they would have surely killed him.

He learned to become even smaller than he already was. To move unseen. To hide in cracks where no one looked for him.

He overheard things, sometimes. Huddled in crannies while his father’s people passed, oblivious, their voices echoing through long hallways.

“I mean, we already know he’s a half-breed.” The word spoken heavy with disdain. “But does it have to be so _obvious_?”

“I suppose not,” said a second voice.

“If that brat is going to end up on the Galra throne, he should at least _look Galra_.”

“A fair point. It doesn’t need to be written all over his face.”

“We don’t need His Majesty to be reminded of _her_ , either,” the first voice said snidely, as it faded into the distance.

It made his tainted blood run cold.

They came for him, later.

A woman with an impassive face and strong shoulders. “Hello, Your Majesty. Would you come with me, please?”

“Where are you taking me?” He tried to keep the suspicion out of his voice, not let them know he’d overheard.

Expression stone cold, revealing nothing. “Just for a treatment.”

“Where’s Father?”

“Your father has asked that you cooperate.” The woman’s eyes were full of something like pity. “He says he’ll be very proud.”

 _It’s bait._ Some part of him, jaded even so young, knew that it was bait. His father had always been proud, but never of him.

And still—

He couldn’t help but take it.

He followed. Always, he followed.

She took him to a sterile room, sleek cupboards lining the walls, void of detail. The chair she helped him into was plush, but somehow he still felt like a slab of meat on a table. A different, ganglier woman was putting on a pair of rubber gloves.

Then, he spotted the device. The needle.

It looked medical. It looked sinister. He felt his face blanch.

_You’re the Galra Prince. Your father is counting on you._

He squared his slender shoulders.

“What’s that for?”

“Nothing scary,” the skinny woman said, in the kind of adult voice that meant if you knew, you’d be terrified.

“Will it – is it going to hurt?” He was ashamed of himself for asking. He could already hear the taunting – _real Galra don’t fear pain. You’re soft._

“It might sting a little.”

He found himself, unwittingly, seeking the gaze of the woman who brought him here.

“It’ll be better this way,” her quiet voice promised.

They told him to lie back. Positioned a bright light above his face, knife-sharp, making him flinch.

“Just remember to breathe.”

When it came, the pain was scratching and endless and cruel. Reaching inside of him, past all his defenses, pulling him out and punishing him while he was helplessly exposed.

And as he lay there, sharp points pressing agonizingly into his cheekbones, something inside him cried out to be good enough.

He touched the spots, later. His face was raw and still painful, drops of blood oozing from the open wounds, staining his fingers. He was convinced he would look in the mirror and see a jagged abomination staring back.

Instead: an unblemished expanse of purple skin. Those strange red marks of otherness, gone.

He looked more like himself than ever before, and he could not explain the tears that stung his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Keith faces Ulaz, in this hall red as a heart, and stares defiantly into his yellow eyes.

“I’m not stupid. I’m not going with you alone.” His insides are a roiling, spiking mess, but he refuses to show it on his face. He will not. He will _not_. “There’s someone I need with me.”

“I’m afraid that’s—”

“He’s coming with me,” Keith repeats, unflinching, then – playing on the shadowy brotherhood vibe he is getting from these people – adds, “I trust him with my life. And he owes me his.”

Ulaz hesitates, but the resolve is clear in the set of Keith’s jaw. “All right. Meet me in Red’s cargo bay. I’ll come out when I see you’re both alone.”

He darts off before Keith can answer, disappearing seamlessly into the shadows.

These _fucking_ people.

Keith remembers a dark alley and an unmasked figure and a grappling hook. Disbelieving blue eyes and a sarcastic voice. _Wow. Well, that was extra._

The memory almost makes him smile. Almost.

Keith retrieves his phone from his pocket, hoping it won’t slip straight out of his sweaty palm.

The person on the other end picks up immediately. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Shiro?” Fuck. His voice is trembling. “I need you.”

 

* * *

 

He’s not on Lotor’s arm when they enter the massive, columned lobby, but he might as well have been. A tension stretches between them, so palpable Lance almost expects it to manifest before his eyes.

The glimpse he got of the hotel from the outside, as the shuttle was landing, was of a building like a shard of glass, impossibly tall, its smooth black surface shimmering with refracted light.

“Everything on this planet is artificial,” Lotor explained, gesturing at the awesome, sprawling cityscape, endless beneath the light of triple moons. “Down to the atmosphere. Even the culture that’s developed here, over time – all of it is by design.”

“Is this a metaphor?” Lance teased. “Are you implying we’re fake?”

Lotor laughed, deep and genuine, lips pulling up to reveal his fangs. Lance’s stomach tightened at the sight of them. “Maybe it’s not that deep, darling.”

Lance smirked, crossing his legs as the craft began its descent. “No, I know. We’re both shallow bitches.”

What _is_ deep, though, is his sheer _want_ for Lotor. He can hardly wait to get his hands under those clothes, undresses him with his eyes as they cross the gleaming tiled floor.

They breeze past the front desk, Lotor acknowledging the receptionist with a casual wave. She bows her head in quiet recognition.

As Lotor summons the elevator, Lance sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “Already got a room?”

“I keep the penthouse available,” he says, off-hand, as if he’s talking about the weather, and didn’t just imply that he spends a vomit-inducing sum of money on a regular basis.

Nice.

The elevator takes them smoothly to the top, so quickly that Lance’s ears pop. It must be able to read bioprints of some sort, to identify its guest, because the doors open straight out into the penthouse suite.

As he glances around, the first word that passes through Lance’s mind is _sleek_. The suite is a vision of black and purple, of modern furniture and subtly pulsing lights. He’s certain those lights are tuned to adjust to signals from their bodies – as soon as they enter, their color drops to a deep, sultry plum, throbbing ever-so-slightly in a rhythm he swears matches his heartbeat.

“You have the whole floor?” Lance asks, breathing in the clean, strangely universal scent of hotel air-freshener. Even on alien planets, it somehow smells like cedar.

“I do.”

“Cool.” Lance slips off his suit jacket, puts it on a hanger, and steps further inside. He looks out through the panoramic window that makes up the far wall. They’re up so _high_ – city spires shoot up from the tangle of bright lights below, hovercars darting between them like busy insects, a dusky sunset glow kissing the horizon. It’s all so distant. They’re untouchable. “Sweet view.”

“Mmm,” Lotor says. “I like it.”

As he swivels on his heel, Lance notices the open magazines on the sofa table, the coat tossed over a chair. On one of the larger tables, adorned with a vase of purple flowers, stands a half-empty bottle with a pair of glasses beside it. There are splashes of burgundy liquid still at their bottoms. Lipstick stains, on one.

“You stay here often?”

“Most of the time.”

Lance smirks, puts his hands on his hips. “You took me home, huh? Up close and personal.”

He shrugs. “That’s how I like things.”

A heatwave arcs up his body. Oh _fuck_ , he has it bad.

“Maybe a drink, to start with?” Lance suggests.

Lotor gestures at the cooler beside the couch, smiles faintly. “What’s mine is yours.”

Lance strides over to it, putting a confident swing into his hips. He doesn’t need to turn around to know Lotor’s eyes are following him.

As he drops into a crouch by the mini-fridge, he sneaks another look around. God, the place is amazing, down to the art on the walls and the delicate, geometrical chandeliers. And this booze – he can’t read the labels, but he can tell it’s the good stuff. Lotor has great taste, that’s for sure.

And Lance is going to get fucked here. His heart flutters, a seed of desire taking root deep inside his belly.

He retrieves a random bottle, hoping for the best. There are tumblers stored conveniently nearby, so thin he’s afraid one hard squeeze would make them shatter. He pours two, hands one to Lotor.

“Cheers.”

They clink, and down it. The alcohol is spicy, fruity, tingles in his throat. Not bad.

Lance swallows with an _ahhh_ , sets his glass down, and looks up at Lotor, through his lashes. Lotor looks back, and damn, if the Galra prince isn’t licking Lance with his eyes. _Good._

“So,” Lance says.

“So.”

They face each other under the soft light, Lotor’s eyes glowing gold. They’re so beautifully shaped. So is all of him, honestly.

Lance walks closer, pushes up into his space, places his hands on the back of Lotor’s neck. Their lower bodies press together, and he can feel the outline of Lotor’s hard … presumably-cock against his own. He bites his lip in delighted anticipation.

“Someone’s excited.”

“Looks like that makes two of us.”

Lance chuckles, deep in his throat. “I’d say it’s about time to get you undressed,” he purrs, in his sweetest, most syrupy voice.

Lotor smirks. “Will you do the honors?”

Grinning, he nimbly undoes the clasps on Lotor’s high-collared jacket, spreads it away from his chest to reveal the tight-fitting undershirt beneath it. He’s seen Lotor’s chest through fishnet tops before, but never completely bare. He feels his mouth watering at the thought.

Lotor lets his jacket drop to the floor, putting powerful shoulders on display, then crosses his arms over his chest and pulls the tank off.

He could have been sculpted by the gods. Abs like a goddamned chocolate bar. Lance nearly whines.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, running his hands down those muscles, feels the strength in them, vibrating just beneath the surface.

“Like what you see?”

“Fuck, yes. Damn.”

Lance laces his fingers with Lotor’s, pulse fluttering against pulse through delicate skin. He walks slowly backwards, slides his hands up Lotor’s bare arms, all the way to his shoulders. Lotor bites his lip as Lance massages the tension out of them.

Then Lance drops onto the sleek black couch, body landing with a muted thud, and pulls Lotor down with him, forcing him to his knees. Gold eyes gleam with confusion, lips beginning to shape the word, “Wh—”

“You didn’t think this would be that easy, did you?” Lance swipes his tongue over his lips and leans back, legs spread confidently apart, shoes planted firmly on the ground.

Lotor smirks in sudden understanding. “Bossy.”

“It’s how I was raised,” Lance murmurs, taking Lotor’s chin with one hand, running his thumb over the seam of Lotor’s lips. They open, and he pushes it inside, feels the edges of sharp teeth, the swipe of a teasing tongue. “Also, you look good kneeling.”

Lotor chuckles, tilts his head to the side, almost kittenish. “Is that so.”

“Mhmmm.”

The Galra prince on his knees in front of Lance, shirtless, hair loose, gazing up at his face with hunger and reverence. It’s an ego trip; that he won’t deny.

“How badly do you want me?” he asks, lifting one leg to rest his shoe against Lotor’s bare shoulder.

“So badly. Fuck … so badly, Lance.”

“Show me.” Lance digs his heel in, presses down a little harder.

Flinching just a little, Lotor takes his foot and unties his laces, looking up at Lance through long silvery lashes as he draws the shoe off. Afterward, he removes the other shoe, running his hands slowly up and down Lance’s long legs, over his slacks. “I’ll do anything to have you.”

Lance caresses the side of Lotor’s face before catching his cowlick around his finger, winding and tugging. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Humming softly, Lance tilts Lotor’s head back and forth, examining different angles. He’s so handsome it’s fucking ridiculous. Lotor’s eyes glaze over, his jaw slackening at Lance’s touch.

“Suck me off,” Lance orders.

Lotor wastes no time getting between his thighs, nimble fingers drawing his clinking belt open and unzipping his white trousers. He leans in to kiss the black boy shorts underneath, breath warm and damp and tantalizing. His lips trace the length of Lance’s cock, and the awareness of those fangs has shudders going through Lance’s spine.

“No teeth,” he says, voice coming out breathy and high.

Lotor looks up at him, and smirks wide enough to expose those sharp points. _Fuck_.

And then, a second later, Galra royalty is sucking Lance’s cock. His mouth is warm, his tongue caressing the head, slow and savoring. _Shit_ , it feels so good.

He’s done this before, or something very similar. The teeth stay put.

Lance stares at the crease in that smooth brow, the concentration in his expression even as his cheeks hollow and his lips slick wetly over Lance’s length.

Holy fuck. Lance clenches his eyes shut.

He can’t come from just this. He’d never hear the end of it—

—and dangerously near the edge, thank god, Lotor slips off. He works Lance’s slick cock with his hand – has Lance’s head falling back, his mouth gaping – before leaning back in to bob his head, to kiss and lick and _tease_ —

“Okay, that’s enough!” Voice unsteady. He takes Lotor’s face between his palms. He’s breathless and turned on and done with wasting time. “Now fuck me. So hard I can’t breathe.”

Lotor’s yellow eyes gleam. “Oh, yes.”

 

* * *

 

As the years passed, he learned how to fight, as was his duty and his birthright. He learned that small also meant agile. He learned to use his opponents’ strength against them, battled with his smarts as much as with his sword arm. All the books he’d read, curled up alone, added to his strength as potently as the layers of muscle he built. Slowly but surely, he was assembling himself into a _person_ , something beyond a tremulous concept of privilege streaked with fear.

His shoulders widened. His voice dropped deep. His hair grew out, a sleek curtain down his back – he was done with cropping it to suit them.

Eventually, he found someone whose gaze lingered on him not with distaste, but desire. He found himself looking back. Exchanged glances turned to a hand caressing locks of his hair, to lips kissing them, and him as breathless as if it had been his skin.

He opened his legs for that someone, and like most good things in his life, he came to regret it.

_The prince is loose._

_An Altean whore, after all._

_I mean, I’d fuck him. Wouldn’t you?_

The composed expressions around his father’s table, belied by maliciously sparkling eyes, the suggestion of smirks dancing at the corner of lips. Humiliation burned him from the inside, and he wished it would melt him into shapelessness, liberate him from having a form that could be seen and ridiculed.

The world was supposed to be his. All he wanted was to be dead.

 

* * *

 

Ulaz’s ship is small and swift and has a state-of-the-art stealth system. It was made to fly under the radar – built to never be seen. Keith is certain that they are completely invisible from the outside, as they zip through the stars.

Inside, though, tension lies thick in the air. Keith’s body is so taut he’s afraid any movement will have him snapping in half. Beside him, Shiro sits ramrod straight, completely alert, the tendons in his neck standing out sharply.

They land, finally, but the ship has no windows, so Keith doesn’t see where.

“With me,” Ulaz says, as the doors open.

They follow, Shiro scowling, right hand held out slightly from his body, always at the ready. Ulaz leads them out of the bay, into a plush corridor – carpeted, dark wooden walls hung with portraits of solemn alien faces.

Keith and Shiro exchange a glance. Not what they were expecting.

“Where are we?” Keith asks, soft, demanding.

“Inside a building that belongs to a university,” Ulaz replies, without turning. “You don’t need to know where.”

“A university? Really?”

“Intellectuals have a long history of supporting the resistance.”

Keith looks over at Shiro again, and he shrugs, almost imperceptibly. It seems like riddles are all they’re going to get.

It’s quiet, and there’s nobody here. Must be off hours, wherever they are.

Finally, Ulaz stops in front of the door to a study. He knocks out a pattern against the wood.

“Come in,” says a voice from inside. Keith’s belly tightens, as if squeezed by an invisible fist.

They enter.

It’s messy and scholarly and slightly mystical: walls lined with bookshelves, cupboards full of delicate instruments, rolled-out maps of the starry skies. On the massive desk, carved from a strange alien wood the color of amethyst, a stained-glass lamp throws a halo of multicolored light.

Standing in front of the desk, hands clasped, is the biggest Galra Keith has ever seen. His face is streaked with red markings, his right eye marred by a long scar, and a white braid falls over one of his shoulders. His torso is sheathed in a trim waistcoat, his legs in trousers made to walk in, not run – and still, the strength in his body is apparent.

“Hello, Keith Kogane. I am Kolivan. Leader of the Blade.”

Keith feels his hands start to tremble. “You’re the one who’s been sending people after me.”

“Yes. To protect you.”

“From _what_?”

“People who mean you harm.”

“Tell me, then. Who wants to hurt me? Why should I trust _you_?”

“Who’s this?” Kolivan asks, ignoring the question. His eyes are trained on Shiro. Shiro, unflinching, stares back.

“He goes where I go,” Keith affirms, trying to summon an authority he does not feel. “If you want me to listen to anything you have to say, you accept that.”

“He claims they share a blood debt,” Ulaz murmurs.

“Very well,” Kolivan accedes.

Sitting in a chair beside the desk is Thace. He’s not in civilian clothes, like Kolivan – still in the same dark armor. Keith swallows, acutely aware of Thace’s knife inside his coat, next to his own. It makes him angry that seeing this man feels _comforting_ – like having a friend on the inside. _None_ of these men are his friends, he reminds himself.

Thace catches Keith’s eye, and offers him a respectful nod.

Keith looks away, back at Kolivan. “When are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“You may want to sit down.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“All right.” Kolivan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and Keith’s eyes are peeled, watching for any sign of hostility, any movement out of place. “The Blade of Marmora was not always veiled in secrecy. Most of us were once part of the royal guard.”

“King Zarkon’s guard?” Shiro asks.

Kolivan’s solemn gaze rests on Shiro, his eyes chips of amber ice. “Before Zarkon.”

“When was this?”

“More than twenty earthling years ago. Back then, the Galra bent their knees to Queen Marmora.”

Keith hears Shiro’s sharp inhale. Feels his own muscles clench.

“And what happened to her?”

Keith is grateful that Shiro is doing the talking for him. All he wants to do is scream.

“She was overthrown.” Kolivan’s face betrays nothing. No anger. No grief. “You’re both too young to remember, but Galra space was distant and closed off, even then. Any proverbial messenger birds were caught. The only story that reached the outside was the one Zarkon wanted.”

“Which was?”

“That Marmora’s guard turned against her and attempted a coup. That she was successfully killed, but the traitorous forces were driven back soon afterward. That Zarkon was placed in command after the immediate commencement of martial law.” Kolivan’s jaw is set. “That the Blades who escaped targeted every remaining member of the royal family, for revenge.”

Keith swallows. “And did they?”

“No. Zarkon’s forces did. They were behind the entire thing, of course, and we made convenient scapegoats.”

“But … why?”

“Marmora was too soft, they said. She wasn’t a battle commander, like Zarkon, and they believed her unable to lead the Galra the way we deserved to be led. But instead of challenging her to rightful combat, they chose to plot insurrection.

“They searched far and wide for every last one of her most loyal people, determined to let the truth die with us. Even though it took them years. Even though they had to go far outside of Galra space.”

“How far?” Shiro says, voice like steel. The question was weighted. Baited.

“As far as Earth.”

Keith’s throat feels swollen shut. His belly is full of ice.

_Please, no._

 

* * *

 

Lotor gets up off the floor, yanks Lance up by the forearms – he feels it, a rough jerk to his shoulders – and pulls him in close. Lance is wrapped in Lotor’s arms, and kissed harsh and sudden and delicious. “Mmm—”

“Come on,” Lotor breathes, against his lips.

Entangling their fingers, Lotor pulls Lance through a doorway, into the suite’s bedroom. The bed is perfectly round and piled high with pillows, the lighting dim and golden.

Lance feels his mouth start to water. “You know how long I’ve thought about this?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since the second I first saw you,” Lotor murmurs, and that is so delightfully cheesy Lance hears himself _giggle_.

Then hands are on his back and waist, and Lotor grabs him, actually _tosses_ him onto the bed. The breath is knocked out of Lance, and he has no time to catch it again before Lotor is on top of him, kissing him messy and deep, fangs pricking against Lance’s lips as he kisses back.

“Wait—” He turns his face away, pushes Lotor up, giving himself an inch of space to move in. “Let me take my clothes off.”

His beautiful eyes narrow playfully. “Oh, please do.”

Lance makes fast work of the buttons on his own shirt, gasps in delight when Lotor spreads the sides open, slides big hands over his bare stomach and chest. “You’re so gorgeous,” he breathes against Lance’s neck, rucks his pants down his thighs – Lance goes limp as a noodle, allowing himself to be laid bare. He kicks off his trousers, toes off his socks, shivers at the fingertips dipping under his waistband and arcing along the edge. “You look so fucking good.”

A wavering smile finds its way onto Lance’s face, the compliments lapping over him like warm waves.

Lotor peels Lance’s shorts down his legs, and Lance lifts them helpfully, providing a view of everything in between them. He doesn’t miss the way Lotor’s eyes close briefly, the way his lips move in what must be a prayer of thanks.

Cool air gusts over Lance’s skin, but he’s heated from the inside, and doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Very slow, very deliberate, Lance hikes up the sleeve of his shirt, and unclasps the watch Lotor gave him. Lotor’s eyes follow every movement, and when Lance hands the timepiece over, he takes it with surprisingly gentle hands, sets it on the table beside the bed. Lance seizes the moment to stretch his body out to its full length, tan and toned – he looks good, he knows he does, and grins when Lotor turns back to him and he sees the sentiment mirrored in his gaze.

“Hmm. I think I like you like that,” Lotor says, eyes sliding down Lance’s body – bared and wanton, naked except for his open white shirt. Lance laughs, shrugs his shoulders.

“Whatever does it for you, babe.”

So, his open shirt stays on.

Lance beckons Lotor closer, and reaches up, rubs his knuckles over the bulge in Lotor’s trousers. “Your turn.”

Grinning, Lotor steps out of his pants, and anticipation bubbles in Lance’s chest like champagne – he has already accepted, with only slight disappointment, that whatever he felt in there is likely _not_ a triple-tentacle whammy.

He’s still thirsty for it, though. Oh, yes.

Lotor’s underwear comes off, and his cock springs free.

He’s big – the shaft slightly ridged, the head sharper and darker than a human’s, flushed a deeper purple than his skin. Lance figures that _your dick looks like a niche-market sex toy_ is an impolite thing to say, even if it’s followed by _I’m into it_.

Because he is. He’s so into it.

He used to date a mermaid, after all.

“And?”

“It looks like it’ll feel good inside.” He looks up, sultry and smug. “So get in me.”

With a lopsided smile that has Lance feeling weak, Lotor goes over to the low table beside the bed, retrieving a bottle of lube.

“You knew we’d need that, hmm?” Lance teases, from where he’s lying, expectant.

“I … may have done some research.”

He can’t help but laugh at that – feels a blush soak his face, all the way to his ears. “You too, huh?”

They exchange a smile, as Lotor slathers up his hand. Then he gets to work, slicking his own cock – tendons standing out in his arms and neck, brow creased and cheeks flushing.

God, he looks good. Lance could get off just watching him.

He’d rather not, though. “Come here, babe. Open me up.”

Lotor gets into bed beside Lance, grabs his ankle with his clean hand and spreads his legs apart. “All right,” he murmurs. “Here we go.”

Lance clenches his eyes shut against the burn, as Lotor pries him open with his fingers, works him until he’s loose and ready. Fuck, he wants it. It’s been a while since Lance has done this – in refusing, so petulantly, to bottom for Keith.

No. He’s _not_ thinking about Keith now, not with Lotor knuckle-deep in his ass. _Fuck_ no. That’ll actually kill him.

Lance closes off his mind. Focuses only on his body.

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” he says, finally, proving himself right by how unsteady his voice sounds.

“Good.” Lotor gets onto his knees, hovers over him, and props one hand under Lance’s knee.

“Come on. Give it to me.”

“So demanding.” Lotor grins, and pushes in.

And oh _fuck_ – those raised ridges on his cock are turning Lance’s vision red _already_ – entering him so painfully sweet and slow—

“ _Shit_ , you feel good,” Lotor mumbles, grinding up against Lance, who’s fighting to catch his breath. “So tight.”

Lance wraps his legs around Lotor’s waist, buries his face in his neck, strands of long hair tickling his shoulders. “Yeah?” he gasps. “Then _fuck_ me.”

So he does. Oh, he _does_.

He goes slow at first, finding his rhythm, but it’s not long before he speeds up. His silky hair falls forward around his face, a halo for the fucking devil, brushing over Lance’s chest and abs and _mmm_ —

“Fuuuuck,” Lance groans, not even in control of his own words, just needing to make noise, find an outlet for the raw pleasure fucking in and out of him, trying to hold it inside. He covers Lotor’s neck in wet kisses and—

“Ohhhh damn – oh my _god_ ,” he exclaims, when sharp teeth dig into his shoulder, sending sweet searing pain radiating through his flesh, “oh god oh god mmmmm …”

And then, way too sudden, way too soon, Lotor pulls out of him. It leaves Lance breathless, winded, arms and legs still shaking with impact.

“Hey—”

Sending Lance a sideways look, Lotor rolls onto his back, and pats his thighs. “Changed my mind. Get on top.”

So Lance gets on top. His dewy legs line up neatly with Lotor’s sides, and he looks down at a sharp face framed by silver locks.

He sinks back down onto that wonderfully thick cock, reedy moans bleeding from between his lips as the hard ridges caress his insides, making him raw and tender.

Lance pushes all the way down, until his ass is flush against Lotor’s thighs, and looks down at him, smirking, primly perched.

“That’s it, Lance. Good boy.”

“You want me to move?” he breathes.

Satisfaction settles in the pit of Lance’s stomach as Lotor’s cheeks flush dark. “Yeah.”

So he moves. Starts slow, taking Lotor inside him, again and again.

His jaw falls slackly open as he picks up the pace, and Lotor rolls up to meet him, melting Lance’s mind, bleeding it into his body – he’s not just in his head anymore, equally aware of every last inch of himself.

“Oh – ohhh, that feels so good, so good—” He bites his lip and _whines_ , a drawn out _mmm_ , as hands land on his body, so big and warm, making him feel dainty and fragile. He loves it, feels himself flush all the way to his chest. Thumbs tease his nipples, and oh, all his nerves must be on the outside, with how sensitive he is, with the roller-coaster swooping of his stomach as fingertips play across his skin. “Holy shit, so fucking good, more, please, more—”

It’s amazing. So, so amazing.

He knew it would be.

He starts to bounce, feeling that sweet scrape of friction inside him, head falling back, column of his throat exposed and vulnerable. Large hands clutch his hips, almost to the point of bruising; he moans and goes faster, more impatiently, _wants_ , _needs_ …

“Fuck, you look good, baby. So good for me.”

The praise caresses his body as if it had hands of its own.

“You’re a little slut, aren’t you? A slut for me, just like you said.”

That deep, sexy voice; the entrancing accent – Lance’s whole body is _burning_.

God, that’s hot.

That’s hot, but he knows what would be hotter.

Lance only considers doing what he does next because he is good at reading Lotor, and this is something he is ninety-nine percent sure will go over well.

And Lotor is grinding his hips up, his breathing coming rapid, panting, “You like that, Lance? You like riding me so har—”

Lance slaps Lotor clean across the face.

The resulting _thwack_ fades, leaving them in a silence almost as stunned as Lotor’s expression.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Lance says, despite the tremor in his voice, and rolls his hips in a teasing circle.

Lotor’s wide eyes crinkle, and his face cracks into a broad, fanged grin. “I don’t know. I’m not used to taking orders. You might have to do that aga— _ah, fuck_!”

The second slap stains Lotor’s cheek bright purple, snaps his head and neck to the side. He sucks in a delighted breath.

Lance scrapes his nails down Lotor’s biceps. “Behave, your _highness_.”

“Oooh, damn …”

Biting his lip, Lance runs his hands down Lotor’s chest, his own cock slapping against his belly as he rides Lotor, taking him in shallow thrusts.

“You’re a little beast.”

Lance just smirks, lifts his shoulders in a shrug, the silky fabric of his shirt dropping to his elbows.

“All right, if that’s how you’re playing it,” Lotor growls. “Time to change things up. Get off.”

His tone is more commanding, now. Lance would be lying if he said it doesn’t turn him on.

So he gets off, obediently, pulls his damp shirt back up onto his shoulders. It must be nearly transparent, by now.

“On all fours.”

His stomach drops out from under him. “Ooh. Yes, sir.”

He gets on his hands and knees, sinking into the mattress – shivering a little, with cold, with anticipation.

Big hands land on narrow hips, and Lance feels slender suddenly, like he could snap in half.

“You want it, sweetheart?” Edge of menace, in that voice.

“Fuck, yes.”

Lotor sinks into him, slowly at first – then Lance whimpers, “Faster,” and he obliges. Lance trembles like a leaf, cries out at a deep thrust that he swears he feels all the way into his stomach. He pushes back on Lotor, moving his own body back and forth, clenching and biting his lip – to drive him deeper, harder; that texture inside him reddening his mind, flushing his chest, driving him insane.

Then – oh _shit_ , then he feels the clap of a palm against his ass, a sweet sting of delicious subjugation. He loves being someone’s dirty boy; it scratches an itch deep inside him, has him arching his back, pushing his ass up in the air, and groaning from deep in his chest, “Fuck – _again_.”

The second slap has him hissing, biting his lip, clenching his eyes shut against the sharp pain. The hand stays on his ass, fingertips digging into his flesh, and he’s so out of breath from it he can barely inhale, gasping uselessly as he feels himself bruise.

“Ohhh ffffuck – please—”

He feels tears nearly pricking at his eyes – so intense, all of it; he feels so much, he’s so full, and ohhh – he wants more, wants it never to end.

Lotor pulls out, Lance gasping at the absence, and he finds himself flipped over onto his back. Hands grip his ankles, and Lotor brings them onto his broad shoulders before pushing all the way back in.

Lance lets out a drawn-out, broken moan. That body above him, chest and abs chiseled, long hair mussed and sticking to neck and forehead, beading with sweat – mmm, and that heat in Lance, _fuck me raw, do it, do it_ – he only realizes later he said the words out loud. Smirking lips kiss his ankle, trail up his shin, and Lance whines and rolls his hips up, and up, and up.

His ankles are brought back down, Lotor’s warmth coming closer until chest presses to chest, and he feels Lotor’s heart pounding, out of time with his own, sounds of battle and racing and—

“Mmm …” He presses his face into Lotor’s neck, doesn’t even care when strands of long hair stick to his lips. A vein in his throat throbs against Lance’s skin. He wraps his legs around Lotor’s waist and squeezes, arms around his neck, clinging on for dear life as he begs for it: _harder, please—_

Lotor’s lips suckle Lance’s neck and collarbone, and he throws his head back against the pillow. “Shit, I’m gonna – I – _ohhh_ —”

Lance’s mind goes white.

The orgasm is on the good side of painful.

_Oh, god, yes._

And he lies there, still in the throes of sweet aftershock, as Lotor thrusts into him again, brow creased with the effort. Lance runs his hands up and down Lotor’s sweat-slicked back, adds in his nails, scratching lightly – and Lotor grunts, buries his face against Lance’s collarbone as he comes.

And Jesus _fuck_ —

—Lance swears he feels those ridges _expand_ inside him, open up and thicken somehow, stretching him out and pushing against every sweet spot he _has_ —

—he feels the spasm throughout every muscle in his thighs, feels heat painting his insides.

_Fuckin’ sweet._

He gnaws at his lip, which must be bruised by now, and is suffused with deep satisfaction as Lotor exhales, shudders, and pulls out.

He flops onto his back beside Lance, his hair sticking to his forehead and his beautiful body gleaming with sweat.

“Wow,” Lance sighs.

“Wow indeed.” Lotor laughs, breathless, and looks over at Lance, eyes heavy-lidded and content. “You all right?”

“Never been better.” Lance glances down his body, discovers that his thighs are sticky with cum – slightly fluorescent, glowing white, blue-tinged. “Cool,” he breathes. “Alien jizz.”

And then he starts laughing, and laughing, and can’t stop – his pelvis is heavy and his face is flushed and his ass cheek still sore and throbbing, and he loves it to goddamn _death_.

“There’s so _much_ ,” he manages to say, then bursts out laughing again – to cope, he thinks, with how much that turns him on. Sticky on his legs, trickling out of him. “Fuck, babe.” He hooks an arm around Lotor’s neck, pulls him in, feels his puffs of laughter against his cheek. “So damn good.”

“You felt amazing,” Lotor murmurs against his ear. “I knew you would.”

“Mmm.” He takes Lotor’s hand, runs Lotor’s palm down his own side, over ribs and lean muscle. “I’m _overjoyed_.”

He brings Lotor’s hand between his legs, and as if he’d read his mind, Lotor pushes a finger into him, slow, up to the knuckle. Lance is already stretched out and ready, slick with Lotor’s cum, and it squelches a little inside of him. Gross, yeah. But so is he, and it feels _damn_ good. He sucks in a breath, wiggles his hips a little. “Oh, yeah …”

Lotor adds a second finger, and Lance moans in delighted surprise at the pull.

“You’re so sensitive.”

“Yeah … mmm … don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t cross my mind. Not until you tell me to.”

“Won’t happen,” says Lance, moving his hips in rhythm now. “Now keep going. That feels so fucking _good_ …”

 

* * *

 

He seized a rare opportunity to venture off-planet, and realized that in other places, nobody knew his shame. He learned that his looks and the confidence that came with being born into wealth could give him what he needed, far away from these people who hated him.

As often as he could, he left.

He met groups of beautiful people, from every walk of life, and discovered that he fit in perfectly.

The first time someone offered him an envelope of fine powder, his chest fluttered with trepidation, but after—

—after, as it burned through his nose and oozed through his system, it melted the jagged tangle of knives inside him, dissolving them into a white-hot ball of sweet elation.

He knew those knives were a strength, a weapon. But carrying them around, trying not to cut himself on their edges, was so, so exhausting.

He could have it both ways, like this.

He could have anything.

 

* * *

 

“This brings us to the next half of the story.” Kolivan takes a crystal carafe from his desk. It looks tiny in his huge hand, as he pours himself a glass of clear water. “Marmora had a sister. A sister who briefly left the Galra Kingdom to be with the man she loved.”

“Why did she have to leave?” Shiro asks.

“Because he wasn’t Galra.” Kolivan drains his glass in a single gulp. “He was human.”

A sucking certainty roots itself deep inside Keith’s gut. His mind goes blank. His ears are ringing.

_No._

“When she heard of Zarkon’s treachery, she immediately joined up with the resistance, and went into deep cover. It took the enemy forces several years to find her, but they finally managed to assassinate Marmora’s sister – along with her entire platoon.”

Keith doesn’t want to believe what he’s hearing. Still – he sees grief etched in Thace’s handsome features, feels it raincloud-heavy in the air. Thick and undeniable.

“They figured out she had a family. The Blade had regrouped by then, and realized what they were doing. We understood where they were headed next, and who they were after.”

 _I can’t move,_ Keith realizes. _Could I move, even if I wanted to?_

He wonders if he’s going into shock.

“We made it in the nick of time. The child’s father was wounded beyond saving – but our people managed to ensure that the boy survived. We intended to take him into custody, and raise him as a Blade, as was his birthright.” Kolivan’s eyes rest on Keith the entire time, unblinking golden pools. “But he was frightened, and escaped. Our soldier had been hurt in the struggle with the enemy, and was unable to keep up pursuit. Marmora’s nephew disappeared into the urban maze.”

Memories – half-formed, repressed by trauma and willingly buried – flicker in Keith’s head.

_“Run, Keith. Go.”_

His father ushering him out of their home, tone brooking no argument. _Go, Keith._

Running as fast as he could. The nightmares he sometimes felt lurking at his windows or in mirrors – the ones his dad would convince him were not real – at his heels now, released from the lands of imagination and out to devour his flesh. Panic and adrenaline surging in a child’s tiny limbs and heart.

Keith ran, and ran, and ran.

He had always been fast.

And then, a shadow – beastly, awful – coming out of nowhere and reaching for him—

And falling to the ground, _thwack_ , knife in its neck, dark blood spurting-oozing, _dead so dead_ —

Another shadow, in black and purple, hands held out in a gesture that had many names. _Surrender_ was one of them, _trust me_ another, but to Keith, young and terrified, it meant only _kill_.

He whipped around and ran again. Used the tight places his little body fit into to elude and evade, breathing rapid-soft through his nose, even though his lungs ached to gasp in mouthfuls of dangerously tempting air. _Don’t make a sound._

Waiting there for hours, ignoring his rumbling stomach, convincing himself he did not exist until whatever was watching him believed it.

He became a lost boy, after that, and refused to be found. He hitchhiked into the big city, found others like him: scrapped children, lean and lonely. Fell into danger countless times, managing, always, to escape – he was quick and small and nimble, slipped away like water and burned enemy hands like flame.

“We waited for years,” Kolivan is saying. “Keeping ourselves alive, and watching, always. When rumors reached us of a new heir, collected – so they said – off the streets, our suspicions were awoken.” He inhales, clasps his hands behind his back. “Madame Kogane had always kept a close eye on the Galra.”

Keith senses rather than sees Shiro shift in his peripheral vision. He’s certain that Shiro’s Galra hand has formed a fist.

A realization seeps into his veins. Chills him from the inside.

Enter a young boy, orphaned at a certain time, in a certain place. A boy who was constantly running. A boy who kept a knife close to him always.

Add to this equation: a notorious info broker, who knew better than perhaps anyone on this side of Galra space what those things might mean.

He remembers confronting her, in that vast, empty room.

 _Why did you take_ _me?_

Keith’s stomach sinks.

Somewhere, somehow, Kolivan is still talking. “We couldn’t be sure, of course. We knew Marmora’s sister had left her son a knife: her blade was never recovered, never displayed as a trophy by Zarkon’s people. We knew it was still out there, somewhere in the universe.”

Keith can’t even look at Kolivan anymore. Stares at a spinning model of a solar system, on a shelf behind his left shoulder. Watches artificial golden planets moving round and round and round.

“But the child’s blade was dormant. It could not be wielded by one yet so immature, so unaware. As the years passed, however, the man’s began to wake. And once again, we were able to sense it. To track him. To see if he was truly who we believed him to be.”

_Fuck no. Fuck no fuck no fuck no._

Kolivan does not bow in an obsequious charade. Staring straight into Keith’s eyes, he presses his fist to his chest in alien salute.

“I am talking about you, of course. Keith Kogane, sole surviving member of the line of Marmora. Legitimate heir to the Galra throne.”

“No,” Keith whispers. “This can’t be true.”

“Are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake?” Shiro interrupts, sensing Keith’s distress, the way he’s shrinking. Keith knows Shiro would take over for him in a heartbeat, shoulder his entire destiny if he could. “Any chance you may have found the wrong person?”

Kolivan ignores him. “Do you remember your father’s face, Keith?”

_I’m not going to cry._

_I’m not going to fucking cry in front of these fucking people._

“Yes,” he croaks.

“This is a photograph of Marmora’s sister and her Earthling beau.” Kolivan flicks his wrist, summons a holographic image above the desk.

A strong, chiseled jaw – clean-shaven in the photo, but Keith remembers it covered in stubble. Kind eyes. Longish hair.

He’s choking up. His eyes are hot marbles, welded into his skull.

“That’s my dad.”

He stares at the woman beside his father – taller than him. Purple skin. Long limbs.

Every inch a Galra.

He searches her face for similarities – for his own mouth, his own cheekbones. _Does she carry herself like me?_

His eyes are stinging. An odd-looking family, to be sure – but it could have been his.

Is that why he never talked about her? Too hurt by the woman who seemed to have disappeared without a word, no messages reaching them from across the universe? Is that why he never told Keith the truth? Just promised – in vain, Keith realizes now – that they’d be together one day? That one day, he’d get to meet her …

A big hand – a flesh hand, full of human warmth – squeezes his shoulder. Keith takes a shuddering breath in, feels a calm suffusing him, the urge to cry retreating. It’s Shiro’s strength, seeping into his body. Shiro taking Keith’s pain onto his broad, scarred shoulders.

_Stars, I love him._

_I love him so much._

 

* * *

 

They take a bath together, in the big outdoor hot tub, cool evening breeze playing over their kiss-marked skin. Lance leans back against Lotor’s chest, and Lotor kisses his wet neck, gently at first, until Lance says, in his lowest voice, “Go ahead, babe. Bite me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want it.”

The fangs sting as they sink in, and a warm tongue laps over the marks to soothe them. Lotor doesn’t bite hard enough to draw blood, but the pain is sweet enough to make Lance’s toes curl, for him to clutch Lotor’s hands under the water.

They don’t even bother with bathrobes, just towel off and strut back into the suite naked. Lotor lets Lance blow-dry his hair, and they get back into bed, lying side-by-side and murmuring to each other about nothing, Lance plaiting a thin braid on the side of Lotor’s face.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” says Lance, getting up to piss, and becomes fully aware of how tender his body feels, after … after _that_. “ _Fuck_ yes,” he whispers to himself, triumphantly, eyes his purpling neck as he washes his hands.

He walks back out, lets his eyes savor the shape of Lotor on the circular bed – languid on his side, long lean body stretched into a perfect curve.

Lance climbs back in and crawls over to him, presses kisses along the shell of one pointed ear. “Hey,” he murmurs, nibbles at the lobe.

Lotor is practically purring, lavender skin flushed and warm from the bath. Lance drapes an arm over him, runs his hand up and down his stomach, over the hard ridges of his abs. His fingers circle a nipple – do all Galra have nipples? This one does, and evidently they’re sensitive; a little shudder goes through Lotor’s body, and he shifts, giving Lance a faceful of hair.

Brushing long silver strands out of his face, Lance leans in to kiss Lotor’s neck, suckle at the spot where he feels pulse throb against his lips. Lotor shifts, and stretches, and lets him.

A deep-rooted urge kindles inside of Lance, and he slides one palm down, to grab a handful of that firm ass.

Lotor gasps, uncharacteristically soft, and Lance is suddenly, desperately aroused by the image that appears behind his eyelids.

“How’s this?” Lance murmurs, letting his fingers stroke in between Lotor’s cheeks. “This all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“This too?” He presses up, two fingers rubbing against that tight pucker.

“Hhn—yeah. It’s just been a while since I—” He trails off, gasps again, and Lance’s heart suddenly grows tender.

Lotor admitting vulnerability? What next?

_He’s really letting me do this._

He’s fucking beautiful laid out like that, all smooth lines and slender grace. Lance fists one hand in his hair, turns his head to kiss him. Softly, so softly, Lotor kisses back.

He feels like there’s a big cat in his arms, a lion that could wake at any moment and break his body between slavering jaws. But Lotor lays as still as a pampered housepet. Stays that way, even as Lance presses a final dry kiss to his lips and leans over to the bedside table to slick his hand with lube.

He pushes a first finger inside the Galra prince, who lets out the softest moan and shifts his hips to accommodate it.

The sounds he makes are so good, so sweet. His voice deep and resonant, body hard and strong, and he’s laid out, pliant and ready, _just for me_. Possessiveness builds inside of Lance.

A second finger joins the first, and he scissors them gently, savors the tiny shudders he feels around his hand, against his chest. “You want this?”

“Mm …”

“If you want it,” he whispers, “you have to let me know.”

“I want it, Lance.” Lotor fucking _growls_ it, and that is somehow hotter than even the most simpering moan.

He works him for a while, three fingers deep, until they slide in and out with ease. “All right. I’m gonna put it in now, baby,” Lance murmurs, and is answered by a breathy sigh that sends an electric prickle over his skin.

“About fuckin’ time.”

He grins at that, presses his smiling lips to the junction between Lotor’s neck and shoulder. With one hand, he gently spreads his cheeks apart, then drags his dick between them, almost fainting when Lotor whines with impatience.

Finally he pushes in, feels the tremors in the solid body beneath him, finds himself surrounded by tight heat.

He starts with shallow thrusts that match their breathing, then pushes Lotor’s shoulder down, moves him from his side onto his stomach, and lets his weight and his cock sink into him.

“Ooohhh, Lance—” His groan is muffled against the pillow. “Mmmmm …”

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing great.” His own breathing heavy. Moving his hips in a slow rhythm, steady; Lotor pushes his ass up, and the tips of his purple ears, visible through the silver loops of his hair, are flushed.

He grabs a fistful of that long hair and pulls, and Lotor’s moan reverberates through his whole body, making Lance tremble with it, too. He threads his fingers through it until they brush Lotor’s scalp, massages slow circles before giving it another tug, met by another gasping moan.

“You like that?” Even he can hear his smirk.

“Mmm, yes. Harder.”

_The Prince of the Galra asking me to fuck him harder. Incredible._

He guesses you don’t say no.

He rolls his hips into it, thrusts firmer, and Lotor groans from deep in his chest. Lance tightens his grip on Lotor’s hair, holds his head back, baring his long neck, and Lotor moans, “Oh, yes, yes, yes—” and sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he gets fucked deeper.

That expression of abandon suits him. Pretense, composure, cool smirk, all melting into pure bliss. It’s beautiful, and resonates deep inside Lance: kinship, sameness, attraction.

Lance’s cheeks are so hot, his heart fluttering madly in his chest – a wild, caged bird attempting escape. His thighs are _melting_. He’s liquid, full of warmth, and it’s rising in him, up and up and—

Lance pulls out, comes onto Lotor’s back and ass, and loses his fucking breath when he lets go of that hair and Lotor turns his head to look at him with sultry golden eyes.

“You’re so hot,” Lance breathes. “God, you’re so hot.”

Lotor smirks, drags his fingers through Lance’s cum, and sucks them clean.

Lance swears he almost has a stroke.

Lotor beckons with those same fingers, and honestly, what _else_ is Lance supposed to do? He climbs into his lap, and they’re kissing again, wet and messy and slow.

Lotor pulls back, and murmurs against Lance’s lips, “There’s one more thing I want to try.”

Geez. They are so blessed to be young and full of stamina. “What?”

Lotor shifts their positions: puts Lance on his back, and gets in between his thighs. He starts by running his hands up and down Lance’s body, then takes his hips and lifts them _high_ – Lance’s shoulders the only part of him still resting on the bed – and presses a kiss just beneath Lance’s balls. He darts his tongue out to trace along the seam leading down to his entrance. Pauses, just above.

“This,” he murmurs, and looks up, into Lance’s eyes.

Lance swears his heart and stomach switch places. “I’m not kissing you any more if you do that,” he squeaks.

“Mmn. That’s okay.” He smirks. “Want to try it?”

Well, duh.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

And Lotor’s breath is hot on his thighs, and then—

—then his mouth is there and—

“Oh holy sweet Jesus—shit—”

And Lance is mewling, gasping, can’t think or breathe, just clench his eyes shut as that talented tongue slips over his entrance – first the flat, and then the tip, and—

—and Lotor’s tongue pushes inside him, and he’s going to lose his fucking _mind_.

How long _is_ it? He decides not to question whatever bizarre alien anatomy is letting him reach so _far_ , because it feels – it feels – oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck—_

—and Lotor presses against that spot inside of Lance that makes him stop talking entirely, and he isn’t even sure he remembers who he _is_.

“Ahhhnn—” He hears the moan drop from his own mouth, drawn-out and filthy, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything but hold on, to push his hips up in desperation. He wraps his legs around Lotor’s neck, can’t help but clench them tightly, feels his thighs press against the sides of Lotor’s face.

Strong hands grip his thighs, loosening their hold ever so slightly, and Lotor draws back, just a little. He kisses and nibbles at the soft flesh on the insides of Lance’s legs, offering a brief reprieve. And all of a sudden, Lance gasps as sharp teeth sink into his skin, once, then again – marking him where nobody will _see_ – fuck, just the thought nearly pushes him over the edge.

Lance grabs onto Lotor’s hair, his grip tightening until Lotor grunts in pain. _He likes that, remember?_ thinks some still-coherent, distant part of Lance’s brain, and makes him pull harder.

And then Lotor is back in place, tongue pressing deep, and Lance sees explosions behind his eyelids.

“Fuuuuuck, Lotor, ohhh—”

He presses against that spot again, and Lance’s hips buck up, twist around. For a moment, he’s sure he sees the goddamn light. _Like, this is it for me. Good-bye, earthly tether._ His entire mind is a ball of crackling lightning, so bright it’s blinding him from the inside. His mouth has dropped open, and he’s drooling on himself, is beyond even caring.

Lotor’s tongue is tracing circles in him, and his back feels like it’s about to break in two, but in a _good_ way, a sweet tug in his hips and belly. His legs are damp with sweat, slipping against Lotor’s broad shoulders.

“Oh god oh my fucking _god_ —”

As he comes, he swears he feels his hips melt entirely. So wrung out by now that there’s barely anything left to leave him.

“Holy shit,” he moans. He’s almost crying – he can feel the tears in his eyes. “Holy shit.”

Lotor grins up at him from between his thighs, and swipes his tongue over his lips as he lowers Lance’s hips back onto the mattress. He sinks into it gratefully.

How thoroughly wrecked can one boy _get_?

“That was – wow. Okay. I’m okay.”

Lotor chuckles, and scoots up onto the bed, letting Lance curl against his chest. “Is that enough for you?” he teases.

“I don’t think I have anything _left_ in me,” Lance sighs, pressing a kiss above Lotor’s nipple.

“Okay. Let’s tuck in for tonight, then.”

“Ohhhh boy.”

“You were incredible,” Lotor murmurs, into Lance’s hair. Lance’s body flushes.

“Yeah, well, you were all right, too.”

Lotor doesn’t take offense at Lance’s blatant emotional constipation – just laughs softly, and kisses the top of his head. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”

Is he a fucking stewardess? “Later,” Lance mumbles. “Just … hold me. For now.”

“Mm. All right.”

He gestures subtly, to the room, and the lights dim even further. Lance snuggles closer to him, body cradled by the plush bed. He kisses the Galra prince’s neck and collarbone – the Galra prince who just _ate Lance out_ , surrounded by decadence unimaginable.

It’s his life, this spectacle. It really is.

* * *

 

“Keith,” Kolivan says, voice insistent. “I’ve told you the truth. We are hoping you will fight for us.”

“But I’m—I’m—look at me. I’m not Galra.” It sounds like a plea. “I’m not Galra! There’s no way they’ll accept me—”

“Keith,” Thace says softly, from the side of the room. “You woke the blade. There’s no question.”

“Yes. There’s a lot we still don’t understand about the way our species mesh. It is also an open secret that King Zarkon’s only heir is a half-breed, of Altean blood. Unless he wants to invalidate his own son’s claim, he has no choice but to acknowledge yours.”

“But I’m not—”

“You sensed us, when we watched you,” Ulaz interrupts. “You knew we were there.”

“Did you ever feel different from other humans, Keith?” Thace asks softly.

_Ever? Always._

Hating himself. Hating the paranoia, the premonitions that had him get up in the night and run away from the warehouse where he slept, for no reason at all – just because of that insistent feeling, of danger nipping at his heels. He crept back the next day, only to find the place in ruins. Listening to the talk on the streets: a fire, a gas leak, undetectable to human senses.

The accident left the rest of them dead. He got away.

Other times: curled up in rafters, listening to them talk, when they didn’t think he could hear them.

_What about that Keith?_

_I don’t know. He scares me a little. It’s like he can sense things that aren’t there._

_He’s just a kid._

_I know, man. But still. There’s just something about those eyes …_

“Yeah,” Keith says, throat tight. “Yeah, I did.”

“You will need to prove yourself in battle,” Kolivan says. “Galra have respect for strength, for worthiness. Can you fight with a blade?”

“Of course. I’ve been trained in combat ever since I …”

_Ever since I was taken in._

A memory reel plays in his mind. A bionic eye, flashing. _I’m going to be your adopted mother._ Amusement in the curl of her lip, at his childish insistence. _A sword. Of course._

_I can teach you how to fight._

The walls surrounding Keith’s world are crumbling, and he is alone beneath the cold, harsh light of truth.

Shiro’s hand on his elbow keeps him steady. His field of vision is narrowing to a slit. His body jerks, as if jumping back from the edge of sleep, responding to the way the ground seems to suddenly tilt beneath him.

And the back of his neck prickles with premonition—

—and Keith whirls, stabilizing himself by sheer force of will, just as Ulaz lunges at him from behind. He ducks, Ulaz’s blow missing, aims a punch at his abdomen – it’s quick and rough and dirty, but Keith knocks the blade from Ulaz’s grip, and catches it, and presses the point into his neck.

Adrenaline surges through him. His body feels lit up, bright, a sun in its own right.

It’s like he was made for this.

“Impressive,” Kolivan says. Keith glances over at him, meets his eyes from above Shiro’s glowing magenta hand, the Galra tech activated and humming, deadly and threatening at Kolivan’s neck.

Thace is halfway out of his chair, ready to defend his leader. Shiro must have reacted in the same split-second as Keith. A throb of gratitude goes through him. _Oh, Shiro._

“If this is how you always fight,” Kolivan goes on, “any Galra would find you worthy of respect.”

“I thought the bloodline was what mattered,” Shiro says, slowly lowering his hand.

“To some extent. However, a title is worthless if you can’t defend it. That’s why Zarkon still commands respect, despite his vile subterfuge.”

Keith’s dizzy. He wants to sit down and put his head in his hands and stay that way for days. When he walks out of this place, the world won’t be the same as it was when he entered – or maybe _he_ won’t be the same, a paper cutout, edges starkly obvious against the background, proving he doesn’t belong.

“I can’t do this. I _can’t_. Why does this even _matter_?”

“If we don’t overthrow Zarkon’s line, the universe as we know it will be irrevocably changed.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“It means seizing the Galra Kingdom was only the beginning. Zarkon intends to found an empire. And we’re afraid his conquest is beginning very, very soon. He wants the universe, and he intends to conquer and enslave one planet at a time until he has it.”

“An empire,” Shiro repeats. “This is a serious allegation.”

“It’s a serious truth.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“The Galra Kingdom under Zarkon is more opaque than ever before. But they are preparing for war. We have footage from our people inside. Biological experiments. Factory production. Massive imports of what they are unable to make themselves: chemicals, weaponry, supplies. We will forward what evidence we can to your home base, and you can decide for yourselves. Thace?”

Thace bows his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

Keith and Shiro exchange a glance.

“What role would Keith need to play in all of this?” Shiro asks, a wrinkle of frustration between his full, dark brows.

“We need a figurehead, a challenger. Someone for the people to rally behind. Someone of the old blood.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Keith says, through his dry throat. “To the people.”

“A tyrant murdering our rulers and seizing absolute command wasn’t fair, either.”

“He has a point,” Shiro says, under his breath.

“Wow. Thanks, Shiro,” Keith hisses, in reply.

“I understand this is a lot to take in,” Kolivan says.

“Yeah, no shit,” says Keith, between gritted teeth.

_Will I ever feel like part of the world again?_

_Have I ever felt like I am?_

“We’ll give you time to process it, of course. However—”

“Let me guess.” Keith swallows. “You’ll be in touch.”

Is that a smile? The back of Keith’s neck prickles with cold.

Kolivan’s eyes don’t leave him for a second.

“Correct.”

 

* * *

 

Back home – a pointless word, home – they kept talking. Kept taunting him. He’d found a place, away from here, but his own people still doubted him. His character. His loyalty. His strength.

They became clumsy about it – or perhaps it was just that they had never attempted subtlety. Groups of soldiers were always the worst. Gossiping loudly, where anyone could hear. Sneers in their voices.

“He’s gotten cold, don’t you think? Frigid, if you will.”

“Hmm, maybe. But I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s still deliciously hot and wet, on the inside.”

And they laughed.

He walked with more intent, his boots clicking louder on the floor. He turned the corner, stepping into view. They stopped laughing.

“Hello, boys. This sounds like an intriguing conversation. Would you mind repeating that last bit?”

And the insolent bastard at the front – a commander, judging by his badge – had the nerve to _smirk_ , wide and lascivious. No doubt he had heard the stories about the prince face-down and moaning. It didn’t matter that the one who’d first spread them – who’d first spread his legs – had long since been re-stationed: good gossip is like a contagious disease, and lives on independent of its origin.

“Well, Your Highness, we were just discussing how—”

He never finished.

The Commander’s sentence ended in a useless, shocked gargling, yellow eyes bulging as he stared at the blade buried in his stomach. Cruel, sharp, and slicked dark with ichor.

He let the thrust hang, suspended. Let them all have a good, long look. He knew where to aim to hurt, but not kill.

Sometimes, hurting is worse.

And finally, time started to move again, and a heart-wrenching cry tore from the Commander’s throat – an animal sound, wordless, guttural. He crumpled to the ground.

The prince pulled his sword back out. The sound it made was awful – slick metal dragging out of a mess of living flesh.

He met the horrified, pained gaze of the soldier cowering on the floor.

His heart was dead rock in his chest. Tight with conviction.

They were staring at him. His back was a proud column.

He lifted his sword, examining it under the artificial purple light. Blood is not all liquid, he noted – it’s clotted, stringy with tissue; painfully, organically alive.

He licked the blade with the flat of his tongue. Tasted salt and misery and revenge. _This is what reality tastes like._ “You’re right,” he murmured, his eyes mercilessly trained on theirs. “It _is_ hot and wet, on the inside.”

The horror on their faces outweighed any traces of revulsion, now. That was good. _Fear,_ said his father’s voice, _is the first sign of respect._

“Anyone else?” he demanded, voice booming from deep in his chest. “Something to add, perhaps?”

They didn’t speak, just dropped to their knees, saluted him with a fist pressed to the heart. The Galra way.

The prince tapped the point of his blade contemplatively against the floor. Took in the pulsing veins in their throats, the barely contained terror in the tense lines of their faces.

They knew he was undefeated in the ring. They just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

“That will be all, then. Dismissed.”

They scurried off, dragging their wounded comrade. Watching them go, Lotor was reminded of the promise that nestled always in his heart – his heart that pumped royal blood through half-breed veins.

_One day this will all be mine._

_I will build a new world with what I’m given, and the lot of you are only bricks and mortar._

_A juster world. A fairer world._

_It’s what I was destined for. And mark my fucking words – I will claim it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA. SO. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THAT. writing it was wild.
> 
> want other people to find this fic? reblog [The Post!](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/157030937554/deepest-shade)
> 
> also, new art for the fic!  
> first, [these portraits that i did myself.](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/163306272481/some-portraits-for-my-scifi-noir-fic-deepest) i mean, i'm a writer, not an artist, but i tried.  
> second, this [fucking glorious lance](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/163395575694/mizrette-hey-i-havent-posted-anything-in-a) by mizrette @tumblr, for whom i would die. she has also let me yell at her throughout the course of writing this (i credit her for the phrase "emotional constipation"), and consistently MURDERED ME with AMAZING ART sdkjlgbv. thank you so much ;-; her art is so damn good pls go give it 8 million notes thanks
> 
> finally: when i said this chapter had lotor stab somebody in the gut, my friend ali immediately announced "im the dude he stabbed. pls mak e the dude me." so this is me making ali the dude. it's official. you're welcome.
> 
> talk to me on [tungle dot fuck!](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com) i love you all. have a good one.


	9. Teal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are some bonding moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh this took FOREVER. thanks for waiting. *shakes fist at fic* i'll finish you, one day!!! and thanks, kat, for reading scraps and reassuring.
> 
> i'll just give y'all some songs and let u enjoy, hopefully.
> 
>  **Keith:** [I'm A Wanted Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSAMOBVncSg) (Royal Deluxe)  
>  **Lancelot:** [Wasted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmEIemQfk34) (Tiësto) -- [I Can't Love You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arCJg7TuJpk) (Adore Delano)  
>  **Klance:** [This Town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic1l36GrNOU) (Niall Horan) -- [Safe Haven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXWqYhOnNcU) (Ruth B) -- [ocean eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-u5gDCNwTiw) (Billie Eilish); special thanks to the anon on tumblr who recced this one and wrecked my heart -- [Stay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h--P8HzYZ74) (Zedd ft. Alessia Cara)
> 
> this chapter is very emo and so am i. warnings: graphic violence. sap. *releases it into the void*

Lance is indulging himself with a guilty cigarette out on the balcony when Keith calls.

He lowers the cig from his lips, smoke curling and twisting into the cool evening air, and reaches for his phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Keith’s voice sounds so small, so uncharacteristically hesitant. “Um … do you have time at all?”

Lance is about to take another drag off the cigarette when he realizes he’s unthinkingly stubbed the butt into the ashtray. He blinks, staring at the crumpled mess as a flush works its way into his cheeks.

Keith hates tobacco. He complained about Shiro’s smoking – _it stinks up the shuttle and it’s so gross and so bad for your body_ – curled on Lance’s arm, after Lance made the mistake of offering him a cigarette in bed. (“Keith, I was just joking.” “Were you?” “Well, I maintain that smoking after sex like in a French movie is hot, but whatever.”)

 _He’s not even here! It’s not like it matters!_ He shakes himself, to get a grip.

“Uh, I’m kind of tied up today.” The choice of words was unintentional, but it still makes him blush harder. “Got some family stuff in the evening. Another day all right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Lance frowns. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

Keith is quiet for a second too long. “Uh, yeah. Just fine.”

 _Liar._ But pushing doesn’t help with Keith. “So, did you have anywhere specific in mind? Need me to make a reservation?”

Keith clears his throat. “Actually, I – if it’s not too much trouble, would your place be all right?”

Lance’s heart somersaults against his ribs. “Sure. I mean, yeah, totally.”

He pauses, half-waiting for Keith to explain himself, but is met by a stoic silence. The burn in Lance’s cheeks spreads to his hairline.

“Okay. Cool. Um, just get back to me about the day, then. We can be flexible.”

“That sounds good.” Is he imagining the note of relief in Keith’s voice? He could be, which is why it’s so ridiculous to feel it mirrored in his own insides.

“Yeah. Hey, Keith?”

“Yes?”

“Use the front door this time.”

A single beat passes, and then:

“Of course. Who do you think I am?”

There’s a tiny chuckle beneath the surface of Keith’s words, and Lance’s own face forms an echoing smile.

“All right. See you then.”

“See you.”

A click, as he hangs up. Lance puts his phone back on the table, and lets out a long, slow breath.

His hands are shaking a little.

_We’re going to fuck, aren’t we?_

There’s no way that’s not what Keith wants. Just look at last time he was here. Hauling his lean, muscular body up fifteen floors, just to see Lance, just to tell him—

_“I want you to fuck me hard.”_

Remembering it has Lance’s body going hot, hot, hot. Something about the thought of Keith in his apartment – where he’s surrounded by all of Lance’s stuff, existing somehow in Lance’s space – is making his heart pump harder than usual.

And that’s why his fingers are trembling. Because they’ve had sex a million times, just in less familiar places. He has no other reason to be nervous. Yeah, that’s it.

Another memory surfaces: Keith on the barstool in his kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, doing something as mundane as eating breakfast. He was like a digitally added detail – realistic, but too unbelievable to actually be true.

Man, that was weird.

He bites his lip. Takes his lighter and flick, flick, flicks it, staring into the wavering flame.

Weird, yeah. But nice.

 

* * *

  

Keith never expected to save Takashi Shirogane’s life.

That day was supposed to be a deal like any other. Just him and Shiro, going to meet whatever gangster bigwigs who’d pissed off Madame this time: represented by a human woman and an alien, large and pudgy and every inch a mobster caricature, down to its cold, hooded eyes.

They gathered on neutral ground – a deserted airfield, late at night. The deal was no escort, and they’d agreed – but kept a team ready, a press of a button away, just in case.

They’d been sent to negotiate. Draw up terms for an agreement that had already gone rotten at the core.

Their counterparts, evidently, had been sent to deliver a message written in blood.

Keith remembers when it all began to go wrong.

The air itself seemed to change, turning thick and soupy, as the two groups faced one another across the open expanse of the airstrip. The grounded planes seemed _aware_ , hulking titans trapped inside inert metal shells, watching through empty windows.

Tendrils of cold caressed the back of Keith’s neck, wrapped around his throat – and he _knew_ , with that uncanny sixth sense of his, that something was terribly off.

“You see, unfortunately, this isn’t something we can just let you walk out of,” the woman said, in a voice like syrup on velvet – sweet meeting smooth, and birthing something sticky and vile.

Two henchmen – sheathed, until now, in invisibility weave – stepped out of the shadows.

Shiro registered the fact that they were armed several split-seconds before Keith did, his body already braced for battle by the time Keith whipped his head around to warn him. There was something to be said, after all, for a soldier of Shiro’s caliber.

Their eyes met ever-so-briefly. And then, as naturally as river-water flowing around stones, they ended up back to back. Moving as one unit, simultaneously as aware of and oblivious to one another as arms are of legs: simply knowing, _trusting_ , that they will work in tandem.

The battle was quick and dirty and intended to kill. Keith’s mind bled out into his body, and he became himself in the truest sense – the line between flesh and psyche blurred beyond distinction. The pop of every bullet, the flash of every enemy move, the horrid acrid tang of gunsmoke and fear – every sense heightened; every perception, every reaction, focused on keeping him alive. His muscles were burning, tendons threatening to tear, joints straining in their sockets – he was stretching too far, overextending, and at the same time, he could have sworn he’d been made for this.

Together, Keith and Shiro picked off the fat alien and one of the henchmen, leaving both of them incapacitated and on the ground. They could win this. Keith knew they could.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it come flying—

—he grabbed Shiro—

—who was already leaping out of the way—

—and there was a split-second where the world blurred into slow-motion, and he swore he could see it, the projectile distending, combusting … and—

—the grenade detonated.

_B O O M_

The blast sent them flying, Shiro’s back to the impact, shielding Keith– Keith’s own body bruising as it scraped against the ground, but nevertheless whole, intact …

And when he looked up – coughing, his eyes pouring, his throat full of furious clawing demons – and into Shiro’s eyes … he found them wide and full of relived horrors.

Shiro wasn’t there, with him, in this time, in this place. Not anymore.

Keith struggled under his weight, pushed man and metal and muscle off of him and squirmed out from beneath him just as—

—just as a figure materialized through the smoke

and Keith saw the barrel rising

and Shiro was in no state to react

but _he_ was, oh, was he ever.

(The knife was where he always kept it.)

A beast was rearing its head inside him, a flame-colored lion rising from his belly and into his head, burning away reason, leaving him with a white wall of fire in place of a mind.

_You won’t hurt him._

And Keith lunged, impossibly fast, the point of his knife driving through skin and fat and flesh and tendon.

There were no cartoonish spurts of blood, no explosive tearing. The real thing is more discreet, and somehow, so much more graphic.

It was just …

just messy

just ugly

just a stench of iron that went right to his brain

and Keith stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed again

pushed this person away, away from Shiro, where they can’t hurt him anymore you won’t hurt him anymore

And then, choking on the taste of copper at the back of his own throat, he looked up, and saw the woman.

The one who’d been there first. Who’d given the signal. Who’d started all of this.

Keith saw red. He was blinded, his throat closing up.

Because she and everyone with her wanted to hurt Shiro. The only person in the world who had never hurt Keith.

Even rejecting him, Shiro had been so goddamn _good_.

This bitch was not going to change that.

He went for her at a run, watched her face contort into a snarl, hands reaching for cruel tools of her own, to bury in the softest parts of him …

But he was ready too.

And when he drove his blade into her body, it was without a hint of hesitation.

A body is not a soft thing. It wants to protect itself – sheathed in tough layers of tendon, sinew, bone.

A body is strong.

Keith was stronger.

His knife hit home, ripped through.

It wasn’t clean.

He would not breathe. Could not allow himself to remember he was alive.

And he stabbed again, and again, until she stopped moving.

The airstrip plunged back into silence, except now the windows of the airplanes were joined by several pairs of emptily staring eyes.

Keith was hollow.

He crawled over to Shiro. Dropped to his knees, and gently, so gently, lifted his limp body into his lap.

He sat there for who knows how long. Chilly air scraping in and out of his throat, dead weight heavy across his thighs. He held Shiro and the sky pressed down on them and Keith lived from breath to breath to breath.

Keith remembers only that when Shiro opened his eyes – when he saw that gleam of life in them – his own face cracked into a helpless smile.

And he felt swollen suddenly, aware of every ache in his old, old body – he was certain that he must be old, as ancient as the sun; how else could he feel this exhausted?

But it didn’t matter, because Shiro was here, and breathing in tandem with Keith, and he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

_I love you._

And this was something else, now. Not a teenager’s hormonal crush. Not even a man’s infatuation. Something deeper.

Something like the fire of the stars burning in the vast dome of the sky. Keith felt all of them, in his chest.

_This must be what happens, when you love someone enough to kill for them._

And, eventually, they got to the point where speaking seemed relevant again.

“I killed someone, Shiro.” The words so small, but so final. “In cold fucking blood. Someone is dead because of me.”

Shiro coughed once, stared up into Keith’s stinging eyes.

“I’m alive because of you.” Shiro let the words sink in, for both of them. “I owe you my life.” Soft, astounded, eyes widening ever so slightly – in admiration, in awe.

 _No_ , Keith wanted to whisper, _you’re not the one who should look at me that way._

And for a long time, they stayed there, clutching each other – friends and soul-brothers and something more, something above and beyond the bounds of mere vocabulary.

They both believed in red strings, from that day.

Shiro never vowed to stay beside him always – not in so many words. But after the Kogane medics had him patched up and bandaged, Keith came to see him at the hospital with a furrow of concern between his brows. Shiro laughed weakly, pushed his forelock out of his face with his metal hand, and croaked, “Hey. Let me buy you a beer later?”

Keith was twenty years old. Until today, Shiro had always been a stickler for the rules.

_(“Hey, let me have one.” “You’re underage.” “I’ve had a fucking drink before, Shiro.” “Not on my tab, you haven’t.”)_

Well, new rules, now.

And Keith’s one conviction remains that Shiro will be there with him, until the very end.

 

* * *

 

**(14:32) hey lance you around**

(16:50) yo im rly sorry i missed this

(16:50) i was at the range. whats going on

(16:51) today the day you wanna see me? ;)

**(17:02) nevermind it’s fine**

**(17:03) and no that isn’t it**

**(17:03) i’m just**

**(17:03) not great atm**

(17:03) oh

(17:04) dude im sorry

(17:04) hey i didnt mean to be an asshole i hope i didnt piss you off

**(17:06) no it’s okay you didn’t know**

(17:06) okay. good

(17:06) u wanna talk abt it

**(17:07) not really**

**(17:07) sorry i shouldn’t have brought it up**

(17:07) hey its okay.

(17:08) let me know if u need to vent

**(17:08) thanks**

**(17:09) i might tell you later but for now i honestly just want a distraction.**

(17:09) are u asking me for nudes ;)

(17:10) dude. shit. im sorry i didnt mean to be so insensitive

(17:11) idk why im like this

(17:13) i cant keep my mouth shut

(17:13) or my… thumbs?

(17:14) whatever

(17:14) im really sorry

**(17:17) yeah you’re a fucking dumbass**

(17:17) :(

**(17:17) also, yes.**

(17:18) SHTU UP

(17:18) i hate that I CAN’T TELL IF YOU’RE JOKING!!!!!!!

**(17:18) :)**

**(17:19) so uh**

**(17:19) what’s up**

(17:20) oh. idk just gaming a little

**(17:20) cool. what game?**

(17:21) its called voltron

(17:21) a golden oldie

(17:21) i have a friend who always kicks my ass at it tho. but dont tell her i admitted that

**(17:22) pff.**

(17:22) what do u even do during the days dude

(17:22) do u sit in a dark room

(17:23) brooding

**(17:23) i don’t brood?**

(17:24) yea ok. whatever u say

**(17:24) why does everyone think i brood**

(17:26) its the eyebrows

**(17:27) ????**

(17:27) but like

(17:27) do u have any hobbies

(17:28) besides looking angry

**(17:28) i mean, i told you about my paladin**

**(17:28) my hovercraft I mean**

(17:28) oh yeah!!!!! raaaad

**(17:30) i take her out sometimes. stay planetside a couple days, ride around deserts and canyons and stuff**

**(17:30) nice & quiet out there**

(17:30) that sounds sweet.

**(17:30) yeah.**

(17:31) also v ridiculously extra

(17:31) but that’s not surprising since its u

**(17:31) ???**

(17:32) keith you climbed in my fucking window.

**(17:32) ...that’s fair**

(17:32) never 4get

 

* * *

  

He’s lounging in an exclusive private room with the man of his dreams, and he’s bored out of his goddamn mind.

Lance sucked him off in the shuttle. Felt so nervous and so at a loss that he got right onto his knees, smirked, and said, “Hey, Your Majesty, want to fuck my throat?” As if stuffing his face full of alien cock was going to take his mind off things.

Why is there so _much_ on his mind?

He stares at the ice bucket on the table. The dim purple lighting glints off the condensation on the bottle of champagne. He feels the thump of music from outside, in the walls, in his bones.

 _He’ll get tired of me once we sleep together,_ was what Lance had told himself, over and over, as he led him on, pulled away, kept himself high on breathless anticipation.

And now, Lotor’s hand is on his thigh, and his lips are on his neck, everything about it screaming _I’m into you so into you_ , and Lance mostly wants to be somewhere else.

Is this what they call dramatic irony?

It’s an unfair way to feel, and he does his best to push it the hell down, but it still throbs in his belly – _I’m here because I should be, not because I want to._

It’s fickle. Still, he feels it.

“Do you like this club?” Lotor murmurs against his neck.

“Mmm … it’s pretty sweet.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” he breathes, lips and tongue ghosting over Lance’s pulse, the prick of sharp teeth that still has him shuddering. “I’ll give you the deed.”

“How would I manage a fucking club?” Lance laughs, the incredulity in his voice perhaps a little snider than he intended.

“Don’t miss the point,” Lotor purrs, one big hand caressing the curve of Lance’s waist. “I mean I’ll give you anything.”

“Lotor, I have everything.” Why is he being so snippy today? _I should have stayed at home._

“Yes, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Lance sighs. Arousal? Exasperation? He’s not sure if even he can tell which.

Lotor’s hand moves in between his legs, rubbing and squeezing through his tight pants, and that feels good enough to make Lance moan. “Mmm …”

He cards his fingers through long silver locks, takes a moment to appreciate that knife-sharp face that still has him in awe every time he looks at it.

He knows what he has. How lucky he is.

He’s just not sure if he wants it.

 _I’ve been using you,_ is the remarkably detached thought trickling through Lance’s mind, as Lotor’s hand runs up and down his ribs, and his lips brush over Lance’s ear. _I wanted escape more than I wanted you._

Why is this so clear to him _now_ , when his mind is fuzzy with champagne?

Lotor leans back, one hand still resting lightly on Lance’s thigh, and retrieves a neat envelope from his breast pocket, face open with excitement. Lance feels annoyance stabbing at his chest. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You have to do that every single time?”

He sounds like his mom. He hates it. _This isn’t me._

_Is it?_

Lotor’s broad shoulders shrug. “It’s just for fun.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s fun.” _Wow,_ says a remnant of nineteen-year-old Lance, in his head. _Who died and made you the fun police?_

Lotor arches one eyebrow, in a gesture that could have been haughty, but his voice is surprisingly gentle. “I won’t do it if it bothers you so much.”

“It’s not about what bothers me.” Lance starts to wrap his arms around his chest, to hug himself close, then realizes he’s doing it and drops them back to his sides. “It’s your life. Whatever.”

He thinks the concern in Lotor’s face is genuine. That doesn’t help. “Lance, are you all right?”

He sighs, ignores the throbbing ache behind his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.”

Lotor puts the envelope back in his pocket, wraps an arm around Lance and squeezes him tight. “No drugs. Okay?”

“Yeah. I – thanks. I just – it reminds me of a bad time.”

“Hmm. I see.” Lotor seems to retreat inside himself – the wild abandon and broad smiles of the real Lotor creeping back into that shell of icy poise. “I’m sorry.”

_I was just ready to be mad at you. Why’d you have to be so sweet?_

Lance feels a new wall between them – awkward, but welcome, distance. Feels it in the way they don’t look at one another as Lotor takes Lance’s hand in his own ringed one, and runs his thumb over the knuckles.

Lance sneaks a glance at him – his pretty face and perfect body – and remembers. _God, you were gorgeous when I was fucking you._ There’s a strange sort of melancholy in the thought – a nostalgia for something that never was, but might have been.

A fluttering kiss ghosts over his cheekbone, and Lotor’s bringing Lance’s hand toward his own body, and he is so, so, so not here for this right now.

He pulls his hand back, and meets confused yellow eyes.

“Sorry. I just … I’m not really in the mood.”

“Oh. All right.”

Lotor retreats, crossing his arms over his chest. Lance feels like a fish out of water – the way Plaxum must have felt, in a tank on land, painfully aware that she did not belong.

_Things were fine until now._

_What changed?_

Looking at Lotor, at his sharp jaw and the delicate-yet-strong tendons in his wrists and hands, Lance is filled with something he might call … finality.

_It was only a game in the first place. I shouldn’t feel bad for tiring of it._

Because it’s been a fun game. And he’s enjoyed it. But having this be his life?

Been there, done that.

He’s older. Not a lot wiser, maybe, but different.

He reaches for his glass and swirls the liquid around, belly tightening with anticipation, anxiety, dread. _I’m getting deep for a guy drunk on pink champagne._

“Hey, if you’re not in the mood, I’m going to go sit at the bar,” Lotor says, in that voice like velvet.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Feel free to join me, if you want.”

“My head hurts a bit. I might just chill here for a while, come see you later?”

“Of course. Anytime.” He stands, hesitates, then leans in to brush a quick kiss over Lance’s brow before he exits the private room. The door slides shut behind him with a gentle _snick_.

Lance sighs, his eyes falling shut.

When he opens them again, his hand twitches toward his phone. Guilt washes over him.

 _Seriously? Blowing off the Galra Prince so you can hole up alone and text_ Keith _?_

Yeah. Apparently.

They’ve been chatting a lot lately. Not about anything in particular – it’s just nice to have somebody there, listening.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

_(02:33) hey_

_(02:33) you up?_

**(02:36) yeah.**

**(02:36) insomnia again**

Lance swallows.

Something’s got to give.

 

* * *

  

**_is today all right?_ **

_yeah! come on over whenever_

_ill be here._

 

* * *

  

Taking the elevator is a lot easier than scaling the building. That much he can admit.

Keith knocks, and the door slides open to reveal Lance looking, for all intents and purposes, like a model – brown hair mussed up with gel and swept away from his forehead, tanned arms visible under the short sleeves of his grey silk shirt. Keith feels plain and awkward in his all-black jeans and tee.

“Hey,” Lance says, his eyes stroking down Keith’s body – not lascivious, just taking him in. “Uh, c’mon in.”

Keith follows Lance inside, and he _does not_ stare at his ass – _get a grip, Keith._

He’s a bit surprised at how satisfying it is to be back here – it suffuses his every cell, as he takes in the now-familiar details. The open living room with its sleek furniture, the leafy, tropical plants cozy in their corners, the gaming system and the travel knick-knacks that scream young hip bachelor. This is where Lance spends his days, Keith thinks, and looks at the half-empty bottle of designer smoothie on the glass table, resting on a coaster that says _Varadero Beach_.

“You want something to drink?” Lance asks.

“Um, yes please.”

“Adult beverage?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Orange juice?”

“Why not?”

“He wants orange juice,” Lance says, mostly to himself, then asks the apartment, “Hey, System, do we have orange juice in stock?”

The apartment’s voice is soothing and sexless. “Yes, Lord of the Butt Munchers, we have fresh oranges ready to be pressed. Would you like me to prepare a refreshing screwdriver?”

“No, just the juice is fine.”

Keith turns to Lance, eyebrows probably well on their way to rounding the crown of his head. Lance is blushing, but stubbornly pretending he isn’t. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Oh, shut up. My friend Pidge thinks it’s funny to mess with my AI.”

“I like your friend.”

“Um, I recall saying ‘shut up.’”

Keith follows Lance into the kitchen, where he retrieves his glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice, ice and all. As he sips it, Lance leans against the island, crossing his arms over his chest. And – oh, fine, Keith admits it. His biceps look amazing in that shirt.

He does his best to hide his face inside the glass.

Lance regards him, tapping one foot on the ground. “Dude, if the bags under your eyes got any bigger, I could slap a Chanel label onto them.”

Keith drains the juice, sets the glass down on the counter. “I haven’t really been, uh, sleeping.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“I think we need to chill you out. Do you mind if I put on some music?”

“Go ahead.”

“System,” he says, to the apartment again, “put on the chill playlist.”

“Of course,” replies the smooth voice of the room, “Lord of the—”

“Oh, can it!” Lance slaps a palm against his forehead. “Geez. She must have programmed it to say that after literally everything.”

Keith grins. “What’s her damage?”

“I beat her at a game,” Lance says grimly, not without a certain note of triumph.

“The one you told me about?”

“Yep.” He pops the _p_ , expression turning smug.

“I bet neither of you ever thought that would happen,” Keith says, and relishes the way the smirk drops from Lance’s face.

Music starts up from the invisible sound system, speakers hidden throughout the apartment. Softly at first, then growing stronger. A mellow vibe, lyrics in a foreign language – Spanish, Keith realizes, as Lance mouths along.

“When I get stressed out, I try to remember being on the beach,” Lance says, his head bobbing smoothly in time with the music. “Nice tunes, a drink maybe, dancing with a friend …”

Oh. Oh hell no.

“You are not making me dance again.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Lance rolls his eyes, but his own feet are already shuffling. “For me, just getting physical helps, though.” He laughs, then – and it’s that open, honest laugh, the one that reaches his eyes, that takes Keith completely off guard every single time. “You probably won’t believe me, but that wasn’t innuendo.”

An involuntary grin curves its way onto Keith’s face. “Yeah, okay.”

Lnance starts moving in earnest, so fluid, so lovely – the kind of person who _feels_ music, who lives it. Keith remembers him at the piano, and it’s the same, the same, the same. He’s killing it on his own, the way he shimmies and side-steps and _shit his legs are so long_ , and Keith would be happy watching him for hours.

Glancing up from a twist, Lance catches him staring. Keith’s face must have gone red, because Lance smirks, rolls his shoulders, and says, “Hey, no need to feel embarrassed. You’re not the first boy to be enchanted by these hips.”

Keith scoffs. “No, I’m sure.”

There’s barely even jealousy behind those words. Just a gentle throb of admiration, as Keith takes in every handsome inch of Lance. He really is enchanting, and charismatic, and … sweet.

 _I’ve kissed him all over,_ Keith thinks, with an uncharacteristic fondness. _I want to be the one he—_

And he strangles that thought in its cradle, before it can form into a full-fledged delusion.

Because Keith is a blue-blooded, half-Galra, murderous orphan freak, and Lance is …

Lance is Lance is Lance.

And Lance Álvarez – snide, spoiled, stuck-up Lance – kind, talented, attentive Lance – deserves better.

“C’mon, Keith,” says Lance, and extends one hand to him. “Don’t be a lump on a log.”

His body is stiff with reluctance, but his heart is tugging him toward Lance’s outstretched palm.

Keith loses to his heart.

He steps closer, lets Lance take his hand and slip one arm neatly around his waist.

“Just follow my lead,” Lance grins.

Keith tries, he really does, but he is much more focused on the warmth of Lance’s hand pressing against the small of his back. The soft lyrics he doesn’t understand could be about anything, and the endless possibilities feel somehow comforting to him, as the music wraps around them.

“Okay, this would be easier if you’d had at least four Bloody Marys in you first.” There’s a smile in Lance’s voice, and Keith frowns, even though he’s aware that he has the rhythm of a chunk of moon rock. And even though their touching palms are clammy with sweat, Keith wouldn’t let go if you paid him.

At one point, Keith steps out of time with the song, and Lance miscalculates, his foot squashing Keith’s.

“Hey, watch it,” Keith grins, as if it wasn’t his fault in the first place.

Lance laughs, and he’s just so fucking _pretty_. “Oops.”

Keith ducks his head, times it, and steps on Lance’s foot right back.

“Oops,” he says, looking up and smirking. Lance’s face slackens for a moment, as he stares at Keith, and his blue eyes are so wide, so expressive – and then he shakes his head, the merest hint of a smile touching his lips as he exhales through his nose.

The puff of it ghosts over Keith’s skin. They’re that close.

Keith wants to kiss him. Badly. Can practically already feel Lance’s lips on his.

But he also doesn’t want to shatter the moment. This rare closeness. Lance’s smile.

A bright ribbon uncoils inside him.

Because this is good.

Despite everything, this is good.

 

* * *

  

It gets late.

After the impromptu dance party, they end up on the couch, Lance with one leg curled up under him, Keith with both feet planted firmly on the floor. Lance introduces Keith to Voltron, the game, and he’s terrible at it, to Lance’s delight.

After that fiasco, Lance tentatively suggests they watch a movie, from one side of the couch, and Keith says okay, from the other.

He still feels nervous. They haven’t touched each other inappropriately even once, and to be perfectly frank, he’s all right with that.

 _I just wanted to be here._ Because, as annoying as he is, Lance always manages to calm Keith down.

_Just being with him is enough._

But does Lance feel the same way? Wondering makes Keith’s limbs feel heavy, his face and hands buzz. Lance probably expected Keith to jump his bones, not be all mopey and needy and moon-eyed. _Maybe he’s disappointed._

“Hey, you gonna help me out here?”

Keith’s chin snaps up, and he looks over at Lance, who gestures at the massive holoscreen.

“More or less endless selection. I got everything. What do you wanna watch?”

_Or maybe he’s okay with this, too._

Keith’s eyes skim the library of movie posters, neatly subdivided into categories. They catch on one centered on a large, inhuman eye, with the title splashed across the bottom in a cartoonish, melting green font.

“Hey, what’s that?”

“Oh. Uh, that’s some documentary Pidge sent me. Same annoying geek friend.”

Keith squints over Lance’s shoulder. “ _Cryptids Around the World_?”

“Yeah, apparently they were a thing for a while. She’s into vintage online trends, or whatever.”

“What the fuck is a cryptid?”

“You know, Bigfoot, El Chupacabra, the Jersey Devil …”

Keith frowns, digging through his memory. “So, like, weird fake shit.”

“Pretty much.”

“Can we watch it?”

The look Lance gives him somehow manages to be incredulous and deadpan all at once. “You wanna watch the cryptid documentary.”

“It looks interesting.”

“Are you into monster dick? Why didn’t you tell me? All this time and I’ve never been enough for you—”

Keith immediately stifles the laughter rising up his throat, and leans over to throw a mock-punch at Lance’s shoulder. “Fuck off, Lance. Just put on the show.”

“Fine,” Lance says, rolling his eyes and pressing play. He folds his other leg up beneath him, which Keith takes as a sign that it’s okay to pull his own knees up to his chin.

They’ve moved a bit closer, because of that punch. Keith wraps his arms around his legs and squeezes.

There are traces of Lance’s scent in the whole apartment, but this near him, Keith catches it stronger and sweeter. It registers in the primitive regions of his brain, sends him back to sweat and sex, to a golden-lit bar, to long nights sleeping soundly with a body beside his own.

The voiceover starts up. As a blurry creature lumbers by onscreen, trapped inside a bright red circle, Keith exhales his awareness of Lance’s hand so close to his.

 

* * *

  

The movie ends, and as credits roll across the screen, Lance turns to Keith and gently taps his fist against Keith’s shoulder.

“So, was it as great as you thought?”

“I liked it.” He considers for a moment. “But it also made me kind of sad.”

Lance’s eyebrows rise. “It made you sad.”

“Nah, well, not really.” Keith isn’t good with words, frowns as he concentrates on stringing a coherent thought together. “I guess it’s just – all these urban legends – no one’s really sure if they exist or not, you know? No one knows what they really are. Maybe _they_ don’t even know for sure. They might be the last living members of their kind. It seems … kind of lonely.”

Silence. As that stillness sinks in, Keith begins to consider never opening his mouth again, or just dying on the spot, or—

“Wow, Keith, that’s deep. You think Goatman is lonely?”

It does sound stupid, when he puts it that way. But Keith is stubborn, and he is going to stick by his idea. “Probably, yeah.”

“Maybe you should ask him out.”

“You’ve made this joke once and I already feel tired of it.”

Lance laughs, and it’s relaxed and bright and natural, and Keith is a goddamn fool. “Hey, consider: what if they all know each other? The whole crew gettin’ together every couple years to party in the shadow realm. Oh, and there’s a band. It’s, uh … Nessie and the Jackalopes. Yeah.”

“That sounds sort of fun.”

“It is. If you’re into fur and tentacles.”

“Wow. My two favorite things.”

“Surprising, but not totally unexpected. I respect you for who you are, buddy.”

Keith elbows Lance, and Lance elbows him back, and they just kind of sit – in pleasant silence, this time, silence like a fuzzy blanket. Keith could wrap himself in it, if he wanted.

He’s a guest in this house, though. So he refrains.

“You know,” says Lance, and it’s in that deeper voice, lower in his throat. “I actually don’t hate you right now.”

“Asshole,” says Keith, as that asshole’s words kindle warmth in his stomach that spreads into his cheeks.

And Lance leans to the side, probably intending to bonk Keith’s head softly with his own, but instead—

“Dude, _ow_ ,” Keith hisses, as skull collides with skull.

“Sorry!” Lance squeaks, pulling back to rub at his own forehead. “Sorry. Went in too hard.”

Keith grins. “Don’t you always?”

“Pff,” Lance scoffs. “You were into it.”

And they’ve moved closer somehow – Lance’s failed attempt at an affectionate head tap has their shoulders brushing, and the warmth of Lance’s arm melding with his own has a tiny smile turning up the corner of Keith’s lips.

“Okay, next movie?” Lance suggests.

“Yeah. You can pick this time.”

“Oh, thank god.”

Neither of them move away from that position, and contentment suffuses Keith in waves.

He closes his eyes. Lets the tingling in his chest disperse throughout his body.

_I get to stay._

Stress and anxiety are still gnawing at him from the inside, a static background hum, spiky and constant. But for now, at least, he is able to push it down.

For now, at least, the brighter buzz from almost-nearly touching Lance’s hand manages to drown it out.

 

* * *

  

It’s not because of a nightmare, but at some ungodly hour, Keith’s eyes open wide and do not close again.

He’s still beside Lance, on the couch. They watched more movies, played more games, then talked for a while as Lance showed off the rest of his extensive music collection. They must have passed out, sprawled to either side, an odd tangle of gangly limbs and rumpled clothes.

And Keith feels awful suddenly. Scared and sick and hopeless.

Because he’s part Galra. His hands have killed. He’s the sole remaining member of Queen Marmora’s line, his existence belongs to people he has never met, and he does not deserve to have something this _normal_.

Keith fights the tears back down. He needs to pace for a while, do _something_ , can’t just lie here nursing the sharp pain in his chest.

He sits up, and the leather creaks beneath him.

Lance stirs, inevitably.

“Hmm? Wha’ timessit?” He blinks awake, yawning.

Keith’s heart squeezes. “Not sure. Early.”

“We fell asleep, huh?” Lance’s voice is bleary. He rubs sleep out of his eyes.

“Guess so.”

“’Magine that.” He sits up, stretches. Long and lean and beautiful. “Want something to drink, or—”

And Lance seems to sense Keith’s eyes on him, because he turns his gaze on Keith – and his own eyes are blue, so blue. “Hey. You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says, in a flash of absolute honesty. “I—I just don’t know.”

The sharp lines of Lance’s face seem to soften in the low light. “Hey, man …”

And he reaches out, clasps Keith’s shoulder, fingers squeezing briefly to comfort and reassure. For a split second, Keith is struck by a stupid urge to cry. “I don’t know what's wrong. And I—I don’t know if whatever it is is gonna be okay. So I’m not going to feed you any bullshit. But ... I’m here. Okay? For whatever it’s worth, I’m … I’m here.”

The eerie early-morning silence of the apartment makes the sudden, rare _smallness_ of Lance’s voice stand out that much more.

His words leave Keith winded.

Keith’s lungs – so shallow, now – force him to inhale. And he can’t tear his eyes away from Lance’s mouth – the bow of his lips, the hint of teeth, the promise of warmth and of crooked smiles curving against Keith’s skin …

His chest is tight, so tight.

And Keith has never been good with hypotheticals. Never been satisfied with speculation and uncertainty and what-ifs. Can’t bear to spend weeks wondering what would have happened _if only I’d been brave enough._

Keith doesn’t consider himself brave, but sometimes recklessness is good enough.

So he reaches up

and seizes Lance’s shoulders

and presses their mouths together.

And the smell of Lance’s skin fills his head and body, dizzying and sweet—

—and Lance’s mouth melts against his—

—and opens, and is kissing him back.

_He’s kissing me back._

His lips are so soft and warm. Keith needs to remind himself to breathe.

Then Lance’s tongue is sliding between Keith’s lips, and he’s shifting on the couch, into a better position, for better access. His hands curls around Keith’s shoulders, coming up to caress his neck, run through his hair …

… and Keith’s so full, so overwhelmed with feeling, the shape of Lance’s face and body so ingrained into his memory that feeling them against him now is like coming home.

He slides his hands up Lance’s arms, feels the lean muscles and smooth skin, and Lance _shudders_ , loses his breath, dropping the kiss for a few seconds as Keith roams his upper body, face flushed dark.

He dives back in again, catching Keith’s lips in brief kisses. The taste of his mouth is so good, so sweet, lips soft and tongue warm and teeth nipping and teasing and making Keith’s heart ache.

Keith kisses with the desperation of _I don’t know if you’ll still want me once you realize what I am_ – of someone who knows he’s living on borrowed time. Wrapping his arms around Lance’s shoulders, Lance pulling him in close – it has Keith’s head _spinning_ —

—because _I want you_ means something deeper, now—

—pointless to deny it here in Lance’s arms, Lance’s space, safe and right and heart beating a tattoo against his ribs that reads _be mine, mine, mine._

The urgency of Lance’s mouth tastes like it means the same.

It’s too much. His heart squeezes in his chest, so palpably it’s like he _feels_ the fist wrapped around it, would try to pry its fingers loose if only he could reach inside.

He breaks away. Swallows. One, two, four times. Pulse pounding in his ears so loud that he hears his heartbeat first and everything else second.

Their noses are still brushing. Lance’s heart is racing, too. He feels it through skin and clothing and his own haze of nervousness.

“You’re seeing someone,” Keith croaks, throat sandpaper-dry. Saying it, making those words exist and leaving them hanging in the air between them, is like making it real. Like tearing down this carefully constructed backdrop of peace with his own half-breed hands.

“Uh, yeah. Keith, I—” Lance’s hands are shaking. Keith feels the tremors multiply over the surface of his own skin, like ripples on water. “It’s complicated, but I’m …”

Keith wants to cry again, suddenly. Chest and face and gut weighed down with rainclouds.

“—but, Keith, I want – I don’t want you to _stop_.”

And his tone is so plaintive – no quips or jabs or deterrents and … oh _stars_ , he’s gone for it.

He just grabs Lance again, and pulls him down, and lips meld against lips. Keith’s pulse is racing. He’s afraid it will pump the glow in his heart so high up his throat that Lance will be able to taste it.

Lance’s hands are on Keith’s shoulders, then in his hair, firm and cautious all at once. Trembling, ever-so-slightly.

Who is Lance Álvarez when he’s shaking? When his shuddering inhale ends in him wordlessly biting his lip, fingers playing so softly with a single lock of Keith’s hair?

_I know what I want this to mean._

He won’t let himself think it.

Exhaling through his nose, Lance leans forward, his forehead bumping against Keith’s. The pain is brief and irrelevant, a gentle mockery of earlier today. They rest like that, head-to-head, and Keith’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t check to see if Lance’s are open.

“Fuck,” Lance breathes, something in his voice so very young.

Keith’s heart feels tender, bruised, as if Shiro just flung it back-first into a wall.

He swallows, tightly.

“Hey,” says Lance, two seconds or five years later. “You know how you didn’t want to talk about … whatever it is? That’s upsetting you?” Keith inclines his head slightly, in assent. “Can I just – not talk about the whole thing with … with him right now? I mean, fuck, I know it’s shitty. I know it’s not fair – to either of you. But I just—” He pushes the words out, one at a time. “I just want you to stay with me. Right now.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, breathless, in a voice like cobwebs and air. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Their hands find each other. Lance’s fingers are long and smooth and warm. His breathing is even. His heartbeat’s erratic.

This couch feels like the only tangible island in a sea of illusions. Keith's eyelids are raw with interrupted sleep, the barest kiss of dawn reaching wan fingers through the windows as a reminder that day does break.

It’s the only place he wants to be.

 

* * *

  

Lance wakes up in his own bed, half expecting Keith to have evaporated, but the very real feeling of legs tangled together and a hand curled softly against his chest quickly prove otherwise.

It makes him suddenly very aware of his own body. He inhales deeply.

_God._

Keith smells like kisses and closeness and good things just within reach. Lance’s throat tightens.

He’s obnoxiously pretty when he sleeps – lashes long dark brushstrokes along his cheeks, face relaxed without slackening, the curve of his lips making Lance’s heart stutter out an extra beat behind his ribs. He doesn’t drool or sprawl – he’s just curled peacefully on his side, _here in my bed, right next to me …_

Lance doesn’t want to stop touching.

He lets his eyes flutter shut, keeps his breathing slow and even. The heat emanating from Keith’s legs and hand seems to leave bright stains on his skin – he’s almost sure they’ll be glowing and visible when he looks in the mirror.

 _You’re being silly,_ he reprimands himself, and then thinks, _oh fuck can my heart please just die_. The traitor is picking up, reaching a rate that no one could call “resting” without cause for major concern.

But Keith is so warm, and Lance doesn’t want to pull away.

 _You’re doing a great job hating him_ , Lance thinks wryly, as he tries not to shift around too much in the silky-soft sheets. He can’t even bother to muster up any fabricated animosity now, though. Keith is too beautiful, his own heart too battered.

They’d changed into pajamas last night, after that ridiculously deep kissing – so solemn, so genuine, as only things that happen at four AM can be. Keith’s wearing one of Lance’s old shirts again, and the sight of it has a strange feeling taking root inside Lance’s bones, empty and fulfilling all at once.

Longing. It’s longing.

Lance swallows, pulls his proverbial head out of his proverbial ass, and stares into the glaring sun-orb of the truth.

_I’m pining._

_Holy fucking shit._

As this realization dawns on Lance, Keith stirs beside him. “Mornin’,” he croaks.

Lance swears he can feel every last inch of his skin. Somehow his mouth shapes words. “Hey, edgelord.”

“God, shut up.” Keith runs a hand over his chin. “D’you have a razor I can borrow?”

 _You're so cute,_ Lance thinks. _You look so fucking cute with my sheets wrapped around you._

“For your hairy asscrack?” Lance says.

Keith rolls his eyes. “We both know that’s not a thing.”

“That’s true. And uh, yeah. Should be in the second drawer.”

“Thanks.” He rolls out of bed, giving Lance a glimpse of toned legs, and pads into Lance’s ensuite bathroom to battle stubble and, presumably, the mullet.

A wave of hopeless affection sweeps over Lance. He can’t even bother to deny it.

_I am so, so fucked._

 

* * *

  

Making breakfast in his own apartment, with Keith but without Hunk, is weird. Weird, but good.

It’s a lot quieter, for one – Lance doesn’t even feel the urge to blabber, and they just shift naturally around one another as they make sandwiches. (“You want me to get something delivered?” Lance offered, but Keith just replied, “Whatever you have is fine.”) Lance can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Keith throughout, and he’s pretty sure Keith is looking at him too. It makes him feel hot, his limbs sluggish, submerged in a warm soup of shy excitement.

After breakfast, Keith gets back into his distractingly tight T-shirt and jeans. The black outfit hugs his lithe body, and Lance’s heart lodges right behind his larynx.

As Keith gets ready to leave, he hovers by the door, eyes darting up and down Lance uncertainly. Then, in some split-second flash of understanding, they both move toward each other, and end up in one another’s arms.

Lance inhales the smell of Keith’s hair – the smell that’s on his bedsheets, now, _fuck_ – and squeezes him tight. He presses up against every muscular inch of him, feels the remarkable humanity, the _vulnerability_ , of Keith’s heart beating against his ribs.

His own chest aches.

_He’s so …_

_I’m so …_

His eyes close; he swallows, that brief gulp closing his ears to his own thoughts.

It’s scary – _why is this so scary? You’ve sucked his dick, for god’s sake_ – but still, he collects himself enough to press his lips to Keith’s temple.

Keith shivers a little, nuzzles closer.

“Hey,” Lance manages to say. “If you ever need me … you know where I’ll be. Yeah?”

A soft sigh, from Keith. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

 _God, I’m so lame._ Why does he sound like a fucking car salesman? _“I admire you and I’m realizing I treasure you and I want you to rely on me. Visit our handy website for more information. Anytime!”_

He is overthinking this.

They break apart, and Keith offers Lance a wan smile, and Lance proves again what a dunce he is by giving him this dumb little wave.

Then the door closes, and he’s alone, except for the butterflies exploding in his ribcage.

Lance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, watching a fireworks display of bright iris-shapes burst behind his eyelids.

“Well, Buttmuncher,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re in trouble now.”

 

* * *

  

Pidge and Hunk come by in the evening. Emergency meeting, called by Pidge. Her face is set grimly, but not so grimly that she doesn’t grin when the apartment casually insults Lance. Nor has she been rendered unable to enjoy pizza.

(“Listen, I can’t eat your weird rich-people fish egg paste or whatever. It’s pizza or bust.” “Pidge, we eat pizza. _Everyone_ likes pizza.”)

As they wipe the last of the tomato sauce and grease from their mouths, Pidge clears her throat, folding her hands together importantly on the table.

“Okay, guys. So, uh, Lance, I looked up that stuff for you.”

His stomach tightens nervously. He isn’t sure he even wants to hear what Pidge has to say. “Cool, thanks.”

“But if it’s okay, there’s something else I … um, that I wanted to talk to you guys about first.” Pidge’s hands twist together, anxious and tense.

Hunk and Lance exchange a glance – they do it unthinkingly, but Lance notices the way it makes Pidge’s shoulders jump up toward her ears.

“Sure,” Hunk says, after clearing his throat apologetically. “Go ahead.”

“Right. Right.” Pidge inhales deeply. “Okay. Okay. Just say it. You’re fine.”

Hunk and Lance look at each other again. _I sense an Epic Pidge Rant on the horizon,_ Lance tells Hunk, with his eyes, and Hunk’s eyes respond that he completely agrees.

“I’m not sure if I’m a girl,” Pidge blurts, the words crowded together, tripping over one another in their haste to leave her mouth.

Lance feels his eyebrows rise a bit. He forces them back down.

“Not sure if you’re a girl?”

“Yeah. Like … this probably sounds super weird. Oh man. Okay, so. I don’t feel like I’m a guy or anything. Definitely not. But lately I’ve been wondering if I might be … you know … more in the middle?” Her hazel eyes are wide and terrified. It makes Lance want to hug her, or hold her hand, but Pidge is so wound up she might elbow him in the nose out of pure reflex.

“That makes sense,” Hunk says, voice gentle. “And, Pidge? Breathe.”

“Right. Breathing. All aerobic creatures need oxygen for cellular respiration, or else they’ll fucking die.” She pauses to suck in some of that sweet, sweet O2. “I don’t know – I feel like, because I used to be sure I was a girl – since I’ve said ‘I’m a girl’ so many times, especially when I was younger and first cut my hair off, and people kept mistaking me for a boy – I feel like I’ve made my decision, and now I can’t go back on it. Like, people would sneer at me. Tell me to shut up and stop being so confused—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Nope,” Hunk says, holding up big hands. “Identity is slippery, Pidge. Like … like picking up a raw oyster with chopsticks. It’s not a solid thing.”

“Yeah, like, that’s easy to _say_ – but I feel like _my_ identity isn’t _allowed_ to be fluid.” Her voice is getting higher-pitched, the words tumbling out of her mouth even faster. “I used to feel like I was a girl, so now I should stay one because those are the _rules_. And, what – I’m not super feminine all the time, and then it turns out I’m not even a girl?” Pidge’s leg is bouncing furiously under the table. “I mean, of _course_ girliness isn’t what makes a girl a girl. Of course. I know that. But _still_. It’s like me not feeling like I am one is sending that exact toxic message. And I’m a computer person – it’s a field that still needs female pioneers, and now I’m … I’m betraying everyone, and hurting myself and hurting women by—”

“By being yourself?” Lance interrupts – it’s the only way to get her to stop, when she starts rambling like that. “Hell nah, Pidge. _Hell_ nah.”

“Lance is right, for once,” says Hunk, and Lance can’t help but feel a _little_ offended that it makes Pidge’s lips curl into a wavering grin. “You’re you, and you can’t let other people’s expectations control how you express that. It’s not your responsibility to be everything other people might need or want you to be.” Hunk reaches out, and rests one hand on Pidge’s skinny shoulder. “Not to go all cheesy motivational speech on you, but what changes, changes. And that’s okay. Remember, Lance used to think he was straight.” He whistles. “Hell, _I_ used to think I was straight.”

A little hiccoughing laugh, from Pidge. “That’s true. Thanks, Hunk.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” asks Lance. “Or to make you feel more comfortable?”

“Well … I was thinking about trying out different pronouns for a while.” Her voice is shaking a little, and Lance reaches out to grab her little bony hand – feels her squeeze back, gratefully. “You know, just to see how it feels. Oh, but I’m sticking with Pidge. I’ve been going by Pidge instead of Katie for so long that it just … seems right, now. Pidge feels like me. And I – if it’s okay, I wanna see if they-them pronouns feel like me.”

Hunk’s smile is so infinitely kind. “Yeah, for sure.”

“Totally,” Lance agrees. “Just kick our asses if we slip up. I promise you it won’t be annoying, or bothering us.” How many times hadn’t Lance felt like it would be obnoxious to correct his relatives, prattling on about _when Lance meets a girl he likes_? It was one of many possible truths, sure, but not the _full_ truth. And his wimpy bisexual ass just sat there and took it. He’d have done anything not to have had to feel that way. He doesn’t want one of his best friends to feel that way. “Like, it really, really won’t be annoying.”

“You can’t get more annoying than Lance,” Hunk grins, and Lance rolls his eyes, punches Hunk’s shoulder.

And Pidge is giggling, laughing, pushing her – _their_ glasses up to wipe at their eyes. “You guys—”

“Oh noooo. Pidge machine broke,” Hunk says.

“Look at that, they’re leaking,” Lance exclaims, as Pidge mops up a few tears with their sleeve.

“I really love you guys,” Pidge says, a smile in their voice.

“That’s gay,” says Lance.

“We love you too,” Hunk says, and pulls Pidge into a bone-crushing one-armed hug. “And, hey. You ever change your mind – ever wanna switch back, try something else, whatever – you just let us know, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Come here, loser,” Lance says, leaning over to join Hunk in squeezing Pidge’s small body. They feel bird-like through the thick fabric of their hoodie, delicate and warm, hands a little chilly. They are shaped exactly like a friend.

The mushy group hug is soft and toasty and perfect in every way, but eventually Lance’s arms start to ache from it, and the three of them untangle.

“Okay, so, now that I’m done being an emo mess—”

“You don’t simply _stop_ being an emo mess, Pidge,” Hunk says sagely.

“Oh, _whatever_.” The snark is back in Pidge’s tone. They’re okay. “Point is, we can get down to business. Hunk, I briefed you on the situation earlier, so you both already know what this is about.”

“Suspicious cargo shenanigans.”

“That’s right. Well, I went digging, and here’s what I unearthed.” Pidge clears their throat, pushes their glasses up the freckled bridge of their nose. “I don’t think you’re going to like this, Lance.”

That anxious swirling returns to Lance’s gut. He ignores it. “Hit me.”

“I’m really not supposed to have access to these records. You know what this would do to my career if anyone traced it back to me?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Seriously.”

“I mean, I expertly covered my tracks, so there’s no evidence. But, yeah. Just saying.”

“I gotcha.”

“Okay. So, there are large amounts of cargo listed here that are, well, not in the books. Not the official books, anyway. And it’s … strange. Big shipments of chemicals, raw materials – and weapons. Ammo. It looks like … it’s a military inventory. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

Hunk looks at Lance with wide eyes. Lance stares intently at a spot between Pidge’s eyebrows. “And?”

“And, here’s where it starts getting weird. I had to dig around to find the coordinates, but it seems like there’s a drop-off point somewhere _really_ far out. After I located it, I started going deeper, because the place was a complete desert, even for space – shady, to say the least. Long story short, I found out who was picking that cargo up, out in the middle of nowhere.” They clear their throat, and look Lance dead in the eyes. “The recipients came straight out of Galra space.”

Lance’s gut twists. “Wha … so what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Álvarez Cargo has a large-scale, undercover shipping operation going on. With the Galra Kingdom.”

“What the fuck?” says Hunk.

“That employee you mentioned?” Pidge goes on. “That glasses guy? He had clearance on this stuff. He was in charge of the logistics, or something like that. It looks like he was enabling some … alterations to the ledgers. Funny business within the funny business – selling on the side, skimming off the top, shit like that.”

Lance remembers.

Keith, on the street behind the gold-lit bar. _He owes us and isn’t paying._

Wide, scared rodent eyes. _I was diverting shipments._

_What kind of shipments?_

“Shit,” says Lance, as he feels his stomach drop out from under him. “Fuck.”

Lance isn’t dumb. He may be a useless ornament, position-wise, but he’s been around this business for long enough to understand what’s going on.

That official expansion into Galra space his family was discussing at the table – god, it feels like ages ago, now – had probably already been decided upon, mutually, a long time ago.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Lance mutters under his breath.

“I’m just telling you what’s in the data,” Pidge says, shrugging their shoulders. “But it looks like …”

“Your family’s done a dirty Galra deal,” Hunk finishes, and looks up at Lance, eyes wide with sympathy and concern.

He swallows. “Classic. Do some favors under the table, get guaranteed first dibs when they open up. Oh, Jesus. There’s no way this is clean.”

He pushes his fingers through his hair. There’s a whirlpool in his gut, threatening to suck him under.

If this happened, what else might have been going on, under cover of shadows?

_How stupid are you?_

_This is a multi-billion-dollar corporation._

_You really thought it was a clean game?_

And part of him, even confronted with those snide inner voices, can only think to reply, _yes_.

He was naïve and helpless and wanted to cling to that one external thing that was, for him, a source of pride.

_How much of my worth is invested outside of me?_

No. Don’t think about that.

“Fuck,” he whispers, again.

He hadn’t wanted to see, he admits to himself. Hadn’t exactly made an effort to step out of his frivolous youngest-son role.

Lance’s throat tightens. Hunk’s big palm rubs comforting circles into his back.

“What leaves a bad taste in my mouth, though,” Pidge goes on, “is wondering what the Galra need all of those supplies _for_.”

Lance barely hears her. He closes his eyes, purple skin and a piercing yellow gaze flashing past in his mind.

_Does he know?_

He thinks about Lotor, a mess he desperately needs to untangle.

He thinks about Keith, and feels his insides swoop and dive.

He thinks about forged honesty and truths that are rooted deep in his chest.

He’s got some fucking work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idea credit for the stepping-on-feet part goes to my friend alisha ([pining-keith](http://pining-keith.tumblr.com/)), whose beautiful art you should go reblog.
> 
> speaking of reblogs, if you think it'd be lit for other people to find this fic, you can help it out via word-of-mouth or by rebageling [this post](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/157030937554/deepest-shade).
> 
> your comments and messages feed me and keep the motivation train rolling. i read and reply to everything i get, and treasure all of them, and then read them again if i'm ever having a bad day. thank you to everyone who shares their thoughts with me <3
> 
> and now, time to get hype for season 4!!!!


	10. Ochre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things take flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:
> 
> [Young God](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUhJRQSs6UQ) \- Halsey  
> [I'll Be Good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scd-uNNxgrU) \- Jaymes Young. thanks kelsi [@soylante](http://soylante.tumblr.com) for killing me w this one go reblog her art to remind her she's amazingé  
> [Still Falling For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvP_OwVSFpk) \- Ellie Goulding. this is one of my 2 ultimate klance anthems PLEASE listen to it jsgksggsdasg  
> [Constellations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_RH7MCPt_g) \- Adore Delano
> 
> i'm normally pretty chatty in my notes but i'm just so glad this chapter is done lmao so HERE, TAKE IT!

He needs to confront her.

They haven’t spoken face to face in what feels like months. She was always more like a boss – a superior – than a parent. He’s also wanted privacy, since the very start, and she’s respected that.

Now Keith is seeking her out. Walking right into the center of her elaborate web.

He finds her in her minimalist office, drinking a cup of black coffee, dressed in her trademark pinstriped suit.

Planting himself in the doorway, he crosses his arms over his chest. To look intimidating? Or to protect himself?

Her eyes – human and robotic – flick up from the holoscreen, meeting his over the rim of her mug. It’s solid black, probably expensive ceramic. If Keith had been sentimental enough to ever buy her one that said _World’s Best Mom_ , she would have squeezed his shoulder, then shoved it into the back of the cupboard to collect dust.

Luckily, lack of sentimentality is one of the things they have in common.

“Hello, Keith,” she says, voice void of expectations.

“You knew. You knew who I am.”

She can tell he means business. She sets her cup down, pushes her chair back from the desk, and waves her hand in the air. The screen folds itself up into a glowing origami box, then vanishes. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you fucking dare play dumb.”

A flicker in her human eye. “Hmm.” She nods, a slow, hypnotic bob. “Didn’t know. Suspected. Call it an educated guess.”

“So what?” He’s clenching his right fist. His nails are cutting into his flesh. “You expect me to take over a kingdom and give you half out of … of _filial piety_?”

“Not the kingdom. Just the insight.”

 _A soft place to bury her claws._ “Okay. Answer the question.”

“Piety. Obligation. Debt of gratitude. Call it whatever you want.” She shrugs narrow shoulders beneath her crisp suit. “Or only because I can make things very difficult, if you don’t.”

“What if I don’t want it?” His voice catches on a half-formed sob. It makes him so furious he wants to scream. “Any of it?”

“There’s going to be a war, you know.” Madame Kogane’s expression doesn’t change as she folds her hands primly in her lap. “You would leave people to die, Keith? Is that how you were raised?”

His shoulders stiffen up. His stomach roils, cold.

 _She_ would leave people to die without hesitation.

But—

—Shiro—

—Shiro wouldn’t. Shiro who lost an arm and years of his life going back for his fallen comrades. Shiro who shaped Keith’s character.

Shiro who was handed to him on a silver platter.

 _Even him._ Engineered, all of it.

Shiro wasn’t in on it, Keith is sure – it’s just that she never makes a move unless it’s calculated first. Cause and effect chained together in an endless game of chess. They’re all pawns in it, even now.

Spider.

Keith doesn’t know this woman. She is not his mother. His mother came from a distant star. In retrospect, Keith thinks, that explains a lot.

Junko Kogane has been, at most, a distant force, a typhoon blowing the course of his life astray. He does not love her, and he is fairly sure she does not love him. At the same time, they might be more alike than he may want to admit, even to himself. Both pragmatists at heart, using one another as means to distant ends.

“You’re angry, Keith.”

“You fucking bet I am.”

“The reason you can be angry is because you are alive.” Her voice is icy cold. He stares sullenly back at her, thirteen years old again. “Remember why that is.”

“Like I could forget,” he says, in a matching tone. He’s never been able to emulate her ability to completely remove the quiver of emotion from his words, though.

She exhales slowly through her nose. The hollows of her face seem very tired, suddenly. “You can come to me if you need to talk about this, Keith.”

Is she serious? Is this a business negotiation, or is she actually trying to parent him, a decade too late?

At nearly twenty-four, and orphaned, he’s beyond that. He feels a lacquered drawer slide shut inside his chest, closing with a final _snick._

“I appreciate it,” he says coolly, and turns on his heel.

 

* * *

 

When Lance texts Lotor – _maybe for the last time,_ his mind whispers – he is unable to stop his hands from trembling.

_i need to see you_

_i can make a reservation for a private room if you let me know when you’re free_

**We could go to my penthouse.**

No. He can’t bear the thought of doing this in that beautiful room, surrounded on all sides by the memory of fucking and being fucked and long hair tangling between his fingers.

_id rather not._

**Okay. How about my club? No reservations needed**

_right. good_

_see you there_

He swallows, presses his fingers to his temples in a vain attempt to massage the tension out of them.

Maybe this is what they call growing up. Or maybe it’s just cutting the bullshit.

Maybe those things are one and the same.

 

* * *

 

They meet at the entrance. It’s an off hour, and the lights are brighter than usual, the clientele sparser. Somehow, it’s like being backstage, at a rehearsal for the real thing.

Lotor seems to sense Lance’s discomfort from the start. His hands hover just above Lance’s shoulders, as if to grasp him and pull him closer, but he doesn’t touch. He kisses Lance’s cheek first, then the soft spot beneath his ear. _Not my lips,_ Lance thinks, but it’s just as well. Part of him feels like he would have only turned his face away.

They walk past the bar, and the tables. The gleam of dim lights off countless bottles and the clinking of glasses merge into a dizzying kaleidoscope that has the floor tilting under Lance’s feet. He’s cowering inside his own body, moving on autopilot as he sits curled up in his skull, alone with his thoughts.

Finally they slip behind the stained-glass door of the private room. An ill feeling settles in Lance’s gut.

_These things are never easy._

Lotor sits down on the low couch, gestures beside him. Lance shakes his head, arms reflexively wrapping his own body. “Uh, no, sorry. I’ll stand.”

Lotor’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, and Lance feels a stone block of distance thunk into place between them.

“There’s no easy way to say this.” He runs a hand over his hair, wishing he hadn’t gelled it, so that he could claw at his scalp, calm his nerves. “I just … I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

A curtain closes behind Lotor’s eyes. They’re reptilian suddenly, cold-blooded – he’s gone somewhere safe, to a place where whatever comes next can’t hurt him.

They are two men facing one another, but might as well have been boys back to back.

“What’s ‘this’?”

“This. All of this. The parties. The alcohol. The …” His eyes flick to Lotor’s face, and he swallows thickly. Lotor is immobile, one arm slung over the back of the couch, legs crossed, chin held high. A perfect statue. “It’s not me anymore. It’s just not, and I can’t keep … pretending. I mean, you’re brilliant. It’s been amazing. _You’re_ amazing.” Lotor’s lips twitch, just barely, eyes sliding up and down Lance’s body. It still makes his belly hot. “But I … this isn’t good for me. _We_ aren’t good for me. I have to move on.”

Silences have never been easy for Lance, and this one is worse than most. He feels the sweat under his arms, his belt biting into the flesh of his stomach.

_I want this over with._

“So you’re dumping me.” A scoff. Incredulous. “That’s what this is.”

He flushes. Embarrassed, ashamed. “Well, yes. I guess so.”

“Huh.”

“Lotor, we’re bad for each other.”

Why is he explaining himself? Why does he feel so fucking guilty?

“Oh?” Lotor says, tilting his head to one side.

Annoyance pricks at Lance’s chest. This is Lotor being petulant. Making Lance do the talking.

Lance takes the bait. A silence is a cup waiting to be filled, and his lips are overflowing.

“You’re fucked up. I’m fucked up. When we’re together … we just pull each other down. Encourage each other. We won’t … we’ll never get better like this.”

_We weren’t together. We weren’t in love. This shouldn’t even matter._

But it does, and he knows it, and he loathes this.

“That’s really how you feel?” And there it is, that serrated edge in Lotor’s voice, jagged, not at all composed. “Because I disagree. With you, I—” His façade cracks, the barest tremor of emotion. “With you, I _do_ feel better.”

Warmth spreads out from Lance’s heart, and he hates himself suddenly. He hates how Lotor is _vulnerable_ , how that’s the crack for Lance to drive his fingers into, and pry him back open before he shuts for good. He hates how it’s a cry for help. He hates how he’s tempted, even now.

_I wanted you to need me._

_I wanted to save you so I wouldn’t have to save myself._

He remembers Keith – unattainable, capable Keith – coming into his arms, for a break from chasing demons. Melting into him. Waking up by his side.

_Keith stood on his own. He never needed you._

_But he_ wanted _you._

_He chose you._

Suddenly, Lance can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, Lotor.” His voice sounds like he’s hearing it from the outside. “I just can’t.”

Lotor’s mouth hardens around the edges. And the gates slam shut.

“Anything else?” he says, coolly.

Lance suspects he’s being sarcastic, but he’s got nothing else to lose.

“Actually, yeah. I haven’t been fair to you.”

“How so?”

“I—there’s someone else. I think you deserve to know that.”

Lotor’s white eyebrows shoot up, and he mouths an _ah_.

“I’m … I’m sorry. I would just … rather you heard it from me.”

Lotor examines his nails, nodding slowly. “So, this is an ‘it’s not you’ spiel? Or did you just want to rub it in a bit?”

His tone is so neutral that Lance genuinely can’t tell if he is being mocked. He ignores the potential jab. “Listen. I still think – whatever we have is broken. We’d have realized that eventually.”

Lance brings his left hand up, to scratch self-consciously at his temple. Lotor’s eyes flick to his wrist, and his expression goes very cool.

“Right. Guess time’s up.”

Lance freezes. Glances at the gold band he’s wearing there – the Rolex, unbenched.

The custom watch is in its case, in the drawer of his night table. He hasn’t been able to wear it lately – he’s tried, but the cold touch of planetsheart on his skin sent guilt radiating through his arm, all the way into his heart.

“I—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

He swallows. His throat is very tight. It’s that feeling of wanting to cry, but not just in his eyes – it’s heavy in his stomach, his chest, his hands. “Lotor, if there’s something you want to tell me, or ask me about—”

“There’s nothing to say that you didn’t already. It was fun while it lasted, now it’s over.” Lotor smiles tightly, but his eyes are ice. “Hm, well. Thanks for the sex, Lance. Have a nice life.”

He stands up, unfolds his long body, and sweeps his curtain of hair over his shoulder.

“That’s it? You’re going to walk out on me?” It’s unfair – god, it’s so fucking unfair – but part of Lance wants this to be harder. _A clean break is better,_ says Superego; _but tears and begging make it real,_ whispers Id.

Lotor pauses, and looks back over his shoulder. Face so sharp the edges could cut. Half of it cast in shadow. “What? Are you going to ask me to stay?” he sneers.

No one does _haughty_ like a prince.

It stabs into Lance’s core, and he wraps his arms around himself, instinctively. Lotor holds his gaze for one beat – two – three.

“I thought not. Good night, Lance.”

The door shuts with a whisper, and he’s gone.

“Fuck,” Lance breathes.

His legs are jelly. It’s dizzying and awful, being here, Lotor’s presence and the scent of his cologne still hanging in the air. This whole place belongs to him. Lance is inside him, even now.

_I need to get out._

He drags his hands down his face, sinks into a crouch on the floor. Amidst the tangle of jagged, aching emotions in his gut, he allows himself to finally feel it.

Relief.

 

* * *

 

He needs a drink badly, after that.

He gets in a shuttle. Ends up at the Castle.

Lance almost makes himself sick when his feet, on autopilot, take him back to the sky bar he’s always loved so much. The same bar where he and Lotor first talked. First flirted. First stared at one another with that poorly concealed hunger, that teasing edge, that craving for … what?

He feels hollowed out inside, scooped like the shell of a fruit. Tired and drained and … sad.

He’s grieving for what could have been.

If they’d met when Lance was still young and going wild – or in five years, when Lotor might have grown like Lance did, found reprieves inside himself without expensive fairy dust …

 _If_ , then what could they have been?

_It’s not your job to save him. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to._

_Because you weren’t doing it for him. You were doing it for you._

To feel better about himself. Like he was someone worthwhile. Worth loving.

He remembers a hand curled close to his chest, and banter over breakfast, and a boy who would scale a building just to see him.

_A boy who dances with you even though he hates it, and puts up with your shit like no one else does, and kisses you like he means it …_

Lance’s cheeks flush dark.

He sits down, orders a glass of something strong to nurse while he mopes. One of the bartender’s many arms sets it down in front of him. He murmurs thanks, and picks it up, swirls the bright alien liquid around the bottom.

“Lance? Fancy meeting you here.”

He turns in his seat, and – _holy shit_. “Hello, Princess.”

Allura smiles radiantly, and Lance feels his edges melting. Her body is sheathed in a couture space-age jumpsuit that emphasizes the definition in her muscular legs. Lance thinks, not unhappily, that she could probably crush his skull between her thighs.

“I caught you in your cups?”

“I was gonna say my life’s gone apples and bananas, but yeah, let’s stick with yours.”

She laughs, and he can’t help but smile in response.

“May I join you?”

“What’s mine is yours, Princess.”

The way she looks at him is fond.

She orders “the usual,” in a slim glass that looks like it would shatter if anyone less ethereal than her touched it. But the way she knocks it back, in one quick motion, and exhales deeply afterward, is profoundly … human.

Lance has been doing away with a lot of pedestals, lately.

“So,” says Princess Allura, adjusting her thick silver ponytail, “how are you?”

Lance sighs, runs a hand through his hair. It’s a mussed-up natural mop by now, all the gel teased out of it by his anxious carding. “Ugh. Not great.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Want to talk about it?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” she agrees, leaning on her elbows. “Feelings usually are. Tell me anyway.”

“Fine. I’m having boy problems.”

Her lips press together. “Is this about Lotor?”

“Yeah. I, uh … I don’t want to dump my shit on you.”

“I’m offering.” She taps her fingers against her chin, considering. “I’ll get myself drunk, if that makes it easier.”

He laughs, despite himself. “Well, in that case. Next round’s on me.”

Grinning, she reaches out and squeezes his upper arm. There’s a glow in Lance’s chest, grateful and warm. She’s just so _good_.

“Long story short, I dumped him.”

Saying it has the emotional weight crashing back onto his shoulders, his arms and legs turning noodly and weak. Allura frowns, her grip on his bicep staying firm.

“I hope this doesn’t sound presumptuous, but … I’d say that was a good call.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s royalty. Getting involved with us tends to be a bad idea. Our politics are too much a part of us, even if some of us are … frivolous, like Lotor.” She sighs deeply. “Sometimes I don’t know where duty ends and I begin. I wish I had the time for girl problems,” she laments, then her eyes widen and she gasps, “but I did _not_ mean to make this all about _me_!”

“Well, _I_ could talk about you all day,” Lance purrs, and she rolls her eyes, whacking him softly on the arm before letting her hand fall back to her side.

“So charming.”

“I try.”

“A bit too hard, perhaps?”

He can’t plausibly deny it. Laughs, self-conscious. “Yeah, maybe.”

They take a moment to sip their drinks. The last time they were both drinking together was at the anniversary banquet, with Lance on Lotor’s arm. He remembers her cool skepticism, back then. “Hey, Pri—um, Allura. You … _know_ Lotor, huh? Like, you don’t just know _of_ him …”

She taps her nail against the rim of her glass. It’s perfectly manicured, coated in pink polish. “As one royal to another, yes. It’s hard not to.” She sighs. “My father and King Zarkon were friends, once. Or so I’m told. I don’t know the details, but Zarkon became too preoccupied with matters of the state – and after he took over – let’s just say they lost touch.”

“And you don’t like his son.”

“It’s not that I dislike him, exactly. I’m just – I don’t know. He makes me uncomfortable.”

Lance’s stomach sours a bit, not just from the alcohol. How come he still feels defensive on Lotor’s behalf? “Really? Why?”

“We met as children, once or twice. He was … a boy with haunted eyes. Part of me still feels sorry for that child. I think he went through a lot.” She frowns. “Prince Lotor is a half-breed, you know. His mother was Altean.”

That surprises him enough to have his eyebrows shooting upward, but now that she says so, he can see it. It explains the slender build, the delicate beauty melded with the robust Galra strength.

“He never mentioned that.”

“No. I suspect it wasn’t looked upon kindly. King Zarkon was never known for his generous heart.”

“Damn.”

“And Lotor – eventually, he changed. Stopped looking so scared. He grew into a heartbreaker.”

“A party animal.”

“Indeed. But, still … there’s something cunning about him.” Allura takes a sip of her drink, pink tongue darting out to lick the residue from her upper lip. “I don’t know. It sets me on edge.”

Lance shifts on his barstool. A drop of cold sweat trickles down his spine.

“Lotor is intelligent,” she goes on. “He always was. So that shift in him – it saddens me. But it also … it scares me. I don’t know what he might be capable of.”

Lance remembers the brokenness in Lotor: in the manic smiles after taking a line up his nose, in the late-night phone calls, in the cold way he retreated into his own skin. “I think … I know what you mean.”

“It’s not my intention to turn you against him,” she says, eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“No, I know.”

“If you don’t mind me asking – what made you decide to break things off?”

 _I realized I have feelings for someone else._ It feels so cheap. He can’t look her in the face, stares into the depths of his drink. “It was … a combination of things. We had fun, but it was toxic. The people we are now aren’t right for each other. And I … I think the reason I realized it was because … something that _is_ right for me just happened to fall right into my lap.” Or climb into his apartment. Whatever. “And I’d be an idiot if I didn’t act on that.”

Allura hums sympathetically. “I hope it works out for you. Really.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“There’s more to you than just a pretty face, Lance Álvarez.”

“Well, thanks,” he laughs. He glances at his stupid fucking Rolex watch, more out of self-consciousness than anything else, but he’s starting to feel done with acting like such a cliché. He doesn’t want to sit at the bar all night. “I should get going. This place is kinda … haunted with memories.”

She smiles wryly. “I know what you mean.”

“It was good talking to you, Allura.”

“You too, Lance. Best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

As he leaves the bar, a glow spreads into his fingertips – terror and hope all rolled into one.

There’s someone else he needs to talk to.

Lance’s heart flutters, and he makes a conscious effort to tamp it the fuck back into place behind his ribs.

Yeah. He needs to talk to him, and soon.

There are a lot of things he needs to say.

 

* * *

 

Keith decides on hololink.

That will be the easiest. If worse comes to worst comes to absolute disaster, he can just hang up.

He can run away.

Keith prefers to face his problems head on, but he’s not stupid. He knows when it’s best to turn tail. It’s the reason he’s survived for this long. Part of his mind is one long, hysterical loop of the same sentence: _I don’t want him to know._

He doesn’t want Lance to get dragged into the mess that is Keith’s life. Doesn’t think he could bear it if he had to watch the look in those blue eyes harden, have them lose their playful twinkle.

But fair is fair.

He takes a deep breath, and calls.

It takes a few rings before a familiar head and shoulders materialize in Keith’s room – the Spartan, bare-bones room that’s all he allows himself on the station. The katanas on the wall were part of the décor when he moved in.

“Hi,” says Lance. His blue eyes are wide and glowing. Just as vibrant, even in lower res. “This is unusual.”

Come to think of it, they haven’t spoken over holo a single time. Why would they have needed to? If Keith wanted to see Lance, then he would see him. Promptly. In the flesh.

“There’s, uh – there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Lance laughs, almost … nervously? “Actually, that’s good timing. Because same here.”

“Oh.” Keith swallows. He has no idea what that could be, but worst-case scenarios hurtle through his head like asteroids. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this way, Lance will break things off first. Save Keith the trouble of hurling himself onto his own damn blade. “Uh, you go first.”

Lance glances down for a moment, long eyelashes throwing delicate shadows down his cheeks. He catches his lower lip between his teeth.

“Well … I just wanted to say that … I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. So if you ever wanted to, um, get together – I’m free.”

And he smiles, shyly, and Keith’s heart ties itself into a knot in his chest.

Hopeful dread. Dreadful hope.

 _You’re seeing someone._ Words that tasted like they meant never.

 _I’m not seeing anyone._ The implication is clear. The implication is _maybe_.

_Maybe you and I … ?_

But Lance still hasn’t heard what Keith has to say.

He realizes he’s been tongue-tied when Lance slants him a look of concern. “Um, or not. I understand if – ugh. I’m sorry. Was that … too fast?”

Keith’s mouth goes dry. He remembers the Castle’s banquet hall, Lance’s cheeky smile, the cocky tilt of his hips. It had been a show, for the person beside him – tall silhouette, long silver hair, lilac skin.

Keith doesn’t know anything about what they meant to one another.

He remembers that watch on Lance’s wrist.

_“It was a gift.”_

_“Someone special?”_

_“Maybe.”_

“I don’t know,” Keith’s mouth says, for him. “Was it?”

This is not the conversation he thought he’d be having.

Lance sighs, looking weary suddenly, and runs a hand through that endearing mop of hair. Stars, Keith needs to stop thinking in adjectives.

“Listen – this sounds ridiculous, I know, but it was complicated. We weren’t – we weren’t together, not per se.” _Kind of like us, then,_ Keith’s mind supplies, involuntarily. “But I did care about him. And he – he cared about me. It just – it wasn’t the right time. I don’t know if there could ever have been a right time.”

Should he say something? Keith doesn’t know. He’s not sure how this is making him feel.

Lance bites his lip again, worries at it, showing the merest glimpse of white teeth. “We were using each other. He needed a shoulder to cry on, somebody to spoil. I needed to feel important, and to distract myself from—” Lance glances up, straight at Keith. Heat gushes into Keith’s cheeks. “—from other things. Things that scared me. That I wasn’t ready to … to feel.”

The earnest look on Lance’s face is a beautiful rarity, as is the absolute sincerity of his words. They’re reaching into Keith’s chest and squeezing his heart. He can’t tell if the sensation is sweet or uncomfortable.

“Hey. You’re being awfully quiet.” Lance’s laughter is hollow, and sounds more like punctuation than anything else. “See, this is why people assume you brood.”

Keith swallows. “Lance, before you say anything else – there’s something you need to know about me.”

The way his expression falls has Keith losing his breath, as if he’s been punched at the stomach – he can’t stand it. But he has to do this.

“I – I won’t blame you if you never want to see me again, after this.”

“Oh, wow.” Talking over hololink is a bit like meeting someone’s ghost: everything is in the right place, but a tad transparent, ever-so-slightly fuzzy. Nevertheless, the tremor in Lance’s voice carries crystal clear. “Is this when you reveal you’ve been married for ten years?”

Annoyance pricks at Keith. “Seriously.”

Lance swallows. “Yeah, sorry.”

Keith wipes his clammy palms on his pants. Looks Lance’s hologram straight in the eye, blinks once, and forces his lips to move.

“Remember the Galra you shot in the alley?”

Lance frowns. “Like I could forget.”

“Well, he took me to meet his leader.”

A confused wrinkle appears between Lance’s brows. “The aliens took you to meet their leader. Wait – I hope there weren’t any anal probes involved, because I feel like that’s a privilege that should be reserved for—”

“Will you just _shut up_? Please?”

“Okay, okay. I’m … I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

 _Really?_ You’re _nervous?_

Keith takes a deep breath. Then the whole story spills out of him, one piece at a time. He isn’t sure if the pieces are even in order, because his mind is still one long screaming expanse of disbelief, and he suspects everything he says mirrors that.

But he does it.

He tells him.

_I’m not fully human._

He watches Lance’s eyes go wide, his mouth slacken, but he plunges ahead the way he would in a fight, unrelenting, until the end. A second’s hesitation can mean a knife in the back, and that’s not something Keith can afford.

_I’m the heir to a throne, Lance. I’m old blood._

_I’m the Galra Prince._

_Zarkon wants to take over the universe._

_The Kingdom is preparing for war._

_They want me as the face of the resistance._

And then it’s done. Every insane detail, laid out on the table. An open hand.

It doesn’t matter that he is Kogane and talking to a business rival. All he wants is for Lance to really, truly know him – know what he’s getting himself into before he speaks another word. Before he looks at Keith again, with that softness Keith is terrified of growing accustomed to.

Lance blinks, mouth still hanging open. “Whoa. That’s … a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

And Lance—

—Lance—

—he laughs. Soft, incredulous, running hands through his own hair – he _laughs_.

Keith is still tense. He does not let his wariness budge an inch.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” is all Lance says.

“Uh … yeah.”

“You’re – it’s true?”

“As far as I know.”

The corner of his mouth still pulled up in a smile, Lance asks, “Why would this make me want to walk away?”

The question is soft, genuine. Terrifying. Keith’s entire body stiffens up.

“Because it’s fucking crazy!”

“Fair enough,” Lance muses, but some kind of floodgate opened in Keith, and the words just keep gushing out of him.

“ _Everyone_ leaves, Lance. Because I’m not worth staying with? Because I’m more trouble than I’m worth? I don’t know, okay? It’s just how it’s _been_.”

The fast friends he made on the streets, who used him for his wits and his speed before they faded back into nooks and alleys. The boys he’s been with – _we’re just fucking, Kogane._ _Who do you think you are?_

Everyone leaves. Leaves, or is taken. The photograph Kolivan showed him – his mom and dad – flickers behind his eyes.

He swallows.

“Keith,” Lance says. “I’m not leaving.”

Some part of him can’t let the words penetrate through his skull. Can’t let himself believe them.

What is Lance seeing, on the other end? Dark, furrowed brows and that face that seems so cold, so indifferent? Surely he can’t see the panic raging inside Keith.

He hears himself talking. “If you want to … to use this against me, I can’t stop you.”

“Hey, hey, whoa. That’s how you think of me?” There’s reproach in Lance’s voice, and … hurt.

Keith drags his hands down his face. The sane part of his mind claws itself back to the surface, reminds the anxious riot in his head that Lance _shot Thace_ for him and didn’t breathe a word. “No. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Lance’s lips twitch, then his hand comes up, rubs at the back of his head. “Besides, I won’t be spilling beans to this family anytime soon. There’s been some, uh, shady business goin’ on over on this end, too. Not gonna be a fun conversation.”

“You, uh, wanna talk about it?”

“The quick summary is: mysterious trading with the Galra.” Keith’s eyes widen, and sudden realization dawns on Lance’s features, as the pieces click into place. “Smuggled war supplies. Oh, shit. Keith, _shit_.”

“Fuck,” Keith mutters, under his breath. Guess Lance is involved in this conspiracy, whether he likes it or not.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Lance is muttering, under his breath. “Shit. Oh, Jesus. I wonder how much he knew about this.”

“How much who knew?”

And Lance _flinches_. “Him. The guy I was – seeing.” He clears his throat, without meeting Keith’s eyes. “Listen, this is literally the unlikeliest shit in every goddamn alternate reality, but he was – I was dating King Zarkon’s son.”

_“What?!”_

“Yeah. Prince of the current regime.” Lance whistles slowly. “I guess I really do have a type.”

“Fuck, Lance,” Keith says, because it is dawning on him what this _means_. “He’s – they’re – these people who want me to champion them. They’re going to want to bring that whole dynasty down.”

The implication isn’t lost on Lance. “You really think they’d go after him?”

“I … I don’t know.” _Probably._

Lance frowns, deep wrinkles forming in his brow. “But he’s … estranged. He was always partying, always … finding some way to escape. I don’t think he’s welcome at the bigwigs’ table.”

“I’m sorry, Lance, but I’m not sure they care.” _Do I?_

Lance digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and there’s a long, awkward silence. Keith fidgets, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

Then, some sort of conviction seems to grip Lance – he squares his shoulders, lets his hands drop back out of sight.

“Either way, Keith, _you_ didn’t make this happen. Look – I’m not sure what the fuck is going on anymore. Not with you, not with me, not with any of this. But I – listen.” He swallows. “The one thing I do know is that I don’t want to lose you.”

The breath catches in Keith’s throat.

_Oh._

They stare at each other – at the person who’s not really there – and Keith feels a wholly different electricity start to tingle in the air. If he couldn’t see the opposite wall through Lance’s head, Keith thinks he might have tried to kiss him.

“I …” His mouth is bone dry. His face is burning. “Me either.”

 _You can’t touch him. That’s not an option._ He wonders if the way Lance’s gaze flickers from Keith’s eyes to his mouth means he’s thinking the same thing.

“Well,” Lance finally croaks, as his lips curve into a wry smile. “That was heavy.”

Keith lets out a sort of laughing sigh, a long exhale through his nose. “Yeah.”

“I have a feeling all of this is going to come back to haunt us at some point.”

“It’s very likely.”

“I don’t want to think about it anymore right now, though.”

A giddy sort of relief is beginning to spread through Keith’s veins. It has him feeling light-headed and weak. “Good call.”

“Um, if you want – maybe not today, but … soon. We could do something. You could … you could come over again.” Lance sounds almost … hopeful. The knot in Keith’s chest begins to unwind, transforming into something airy and light.

“I would like that,” he says. “Actually …”

“Mm?”

“I feel like it’s my turn to invite you somewhere.”

A blush spreads from Lance’s cheeks and down his neck. Keith’s seen him naked enough times to know that his blushes reach all the way to his chest. “Oh? Where’s that? The mullet-grease shop?”

Keith rolls his eyes, but his stomach is fluttering.

_He didn’t push you away. Time for you to let him in._

“Remember my hovercraft?”

Lance’s eyes go round like saucers. “Yeah?”

“How would you like to fly it?”

 

* * *

 

They wait for a clear day.

Lance assures Keith he’ll be able to make the trip a few states over, to meet Keith in the tiny town he specified. It’s a gas station and hardware store type of place, the same kind of shithole where Keith grew up.

He hasn’t been back to his actual hometown in years. He tried, once: sixteen years old, Shiro’s hand heavy and comforting on his shoulder. He’d wanted to cry, but he was too empty. His father’s face was already becoming fuzzy in his memory, and some hard, cold, Kogane part of him had whispered that it was better that way.

When he was recognized – when wondering voices exclaimed, _Keith? We thought you’d disappeared with your dad … what’s that you’re wearing?_ – that was when he knew he couldn’t keep returning. It was too risky.

Nostalgia keeps bringing him out here, though. To similar places.

Keith kicks at a rock, dust smudging the toe of his red-and-white boot.

He isn’t sure how he feels about bringing Lance Álvarez out here. Lance who was born into decadence. Lance who was learning the piano while Keith’s dad hefted him up on one hip to show him the insides of an engine. Lance who dined on multi-course dinners as Keith was watching the heat off the grill crinkle the air like cellophane, scarfing hot dogs like his life depended on it.

It has him all twisted up inside, but he’s fairly sure it’s not all distress.

A remarkably plain vehicle rolls into his field of vision – so ordinary that when Lance steps out of it, he’s almost surprised.

“That’s what you drive?” Keith calls.

“Rental,” Lance hollers back. “I’m undercover.”

He lopes over, closing the distance between them. He’s wearing the most normal outfit Keith has ever seen him in – baggy blue jeans, blue-and-white baseball shirt, and an olive jacket tied around his hips.

And this feeling … it’s not being dazzled. That’s just the desert sun in his eyes.

It’s more like things aren’t as complicated as he thought they would be. More like there isn’t such a dramatic contrast between Lance Álvarez and home.

“Hey,” says Lance. Keith doesn’t know where to look – at the forearms left exposed by his shirt, at the tousle of chocolate-brown hair, at the gleam of white teeth or those endless, slender legs.

Keith stares at a spot in the air between Lance’s shoulder and his ear, and says, “Hi.”

“Where we headed?” Lance adjusts the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Keith sees the flash of a brand label, suppresses a tiny grin.

“Out.” He gestures toward the desert pressing in on the little town, endless and old. It’s obvious which of the two is the permanent fixture.

Shading his eyes with one long brown hand, Lance gazes out at the landscape. “Sweet. Who’s drivin’?”

“I am.”

“Pff. I seem to recall we had a different kind of deal.”

“I am, _at first_. Since I know the territory, city kid.”

Lance brightens. “That’s more like it. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The Paladin is parked in the dust and shrubs at the edge of town, a sleek piece of perfected engineering. It’s a glaring contrast against the raw nature of the desert.

“Get on behind me?” It comes out as a question. Lance grins.

“Aww. You takin’ me to prom?”

He rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Desert prom for jaded adults. C’mon.”

He slings his leg over the bike, settles onto the familiar leather seat. His first-ever hovercraft was an outdated pile of scrap metal, but it was how he learned to fly, and he’ll never forget her. Her paint job was red, just like the Paladin’s.

The Paladin. This fucking machine. He swears he nearly salivated the first time he got his hands on her.

Tightest ride he’s ever had.

Keith feels Lance’s weight settle behind him, and the beginnings of a dirty joke coalesce in his mind. He shakes his head, dispersing them.

Keith fishes a hair tie out of the pocket of his pants and pulls his hair back into a ponytail.

“That’s a good look,” says Lance.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, low in his throat. Keith suppresses a shudder.

He’s wearing his short red jacket over a black tee, callused hands sheathed in leather fingerless gloves. He’s used to the baking heat; so is Lance, apparently, because he’s not complaining.

“Here,” says Keith, handing Lance one of the helmets dangling off the hovercraft’s handlebar.

“Sweet. Helmet hair is my beauty secret.”

Once their helmets are secure, Keith flicks the setting on the dashboard that makes the hovercraft’s safety straps clench into place around their legs. Lance grabs onto Keith’s waist, and Keith revs the engine. Its roar splits the air around them.

“Ready?” Keith shouts.

“Born ready!” Lance squawks in reply.

Cheesy bastard.

The Paladin leaps forward. Not a day since he first bought her has Keith ceased to be amazed by the smoothness of the controls, the absolute responsiveness to his every move.

As the bike kicks off from the ground, the familiar swoop-and-tug of defying gravity grips Keith’s belly. Lance whoops behind him – a giddy, helpless sound, like a kid on a roller coaster.

Keith takes them high, the bike climbing swiftly, hot air whooshing around their bodies. Lance clutches onto him, grip like a vice, which is pleasantly validating to Keith’s masculinity. He bites down on a smile, little thrills pinging through his body.

Once they’re up and smoothly cruising, the Paladin’s engine purring, he takes a moment to admire the view: this place of space and silence and contradictions. Dead rocks in muted colors, ascetic plants clinging to life against all reasonable odds. Sheer cliff faces and an open blue sky that feels vaster than the universe. Rationally, Keith knows all about the true scale of solar systems and galaxies, but the infinite expanse above him challenges the edges of human conceptualization.

To Keith, this sky feels like the entire world.

“Lance?” he says, without turning his head.

“Yeah?”

“Is it okay if I go fast?”

“Well, duh. Isn’t that the point?”

Keith smirks. “Sure is. Make sure you hold on.”

He squeezes the gas.

The Paladin _surges_ forward, like a laser beam arcing across the sky. Delight bursts in Keith’s body as he picks up speed, as the air seems to harden around him, resisting.

He pushes harder. Fights it.

This is how he remembers he’s alive.

Over the growl of the engine, Keith hears a persistent, high-pitched noise that he identifies as Lance’s screaming. A wolfish grin splits Keith’s face.

He tilts the handlebars forward.

They plummet into a dive – straight down like a hurled spear, the world smudging into a blur of desert beige, the ground racing up to meet them, three, two, _one_ —

—and Keith yanks the bike back upward, sending them rocketing back into infinity. The slightest flick of the wrists is all it takes: the craft knows what he wants from her, and she pulls it off perfectly, every time.

He’s laughing. His mind is a supernova, and his skin is made of air.

Keith allows the bike’s trajectory to even back out, bringing them to a speedy cruise. Lance’s fingers are digging into his belly hard enough to bruise. High on flight, he hadn’t even noticed.

“How was that?” he calls. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“I think I might have died back there,” Lance replies, sounding winded, “but _fuck,_ dude, that was _sweet_!”

Then he bursts into hysterical giggles, and his weight collapses against Keith’s back.

Sweet indeed.

“Wanna give it a go?”

Lance slaps Keith repeatedly on the shoulder out of sheer excitement. “You bet! Dude, this is _awesome_.”

“All right. I’m gonna land, and we can switch.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lance squeaks. “Omigodomigodomigod.”

Keith brings them back to the ground. Unstrapping his legs and stepping back onto solid earth is always a bit jarring – feet too heavy in his boots, a reminder that the laws of gravity still apply.

It’s hitting Lance too. He’s actually wobbly, and his hand shoots out to steady himself against the hovercraft’s seat.

“You think you can do this?”

“I’ve never wanted to do anything so badly in my life.” His voice is nearly vibrating. Keith knows the feeling.

“Okay. First rule is, do not try to pull the moves I do. Stick to what you learned in flight class.” Too late, he remembers Lance’s possible high school era grudge, and internally curses at himself for phrasing it that way. But Lance doesn’t flinch.

“Sure,” is all he says, nodding. “I do want to live to see tomorrow.”

“Good. Remember, this isn’t a normal bike. It’s military-grade, a lot more sensitive than what you’re used to flying.” He does his best to sound stern, but he doesn’t think any number of disclaimers could put out the sparkle in Lance’s eyes.

Keith gestures to Lance to lean over, so that he can introduce him to the dashboard: explain which levers and buttons do what, and what order to push them in. Lance understands most of it already, but knowing the specs doesn’t hurt.

Then Keith takes a massive step out of his comfort zone: he cedes the bike’s control to Lance.

Lance straps himself into the seat, curls his long fingers around the handlebars. His touch is reverent enough to calm Keith’s nerves. “Oh, yes,” he breathes.

Keith gets on behind him, wrapping his arms firmly around Lance’s middle. The straps close around his legs. “Start her up.”

The bike comes alive, the vibrations of the engine sending ripples through Keith’s bones.

“Slow at first,” Keith calls, over the noise. “Get used to it.”

Lance obeys, gliding close to the ground before beginning a smooth ascent. Keith lets out the breath he’s holding. They coast around for a while, as Lance accustoms himself to the altitude and the controls.

“Sightseeing tour of Bumfuck, Nowhere?” Lance suggests, a grin in his voice.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

After a long, leisurely ride, Keith decides to test the limits of his own ability to trust.

“Okay,” he says. “If you want, you can try going a bit fas— _fuck!_ ”

Lance clenches the gas _hard_ , sending them jolting forward all at once. “I told you it’s a _sensitive_ machine!” Keith shouts.

“Don’t worry, babe!” Lance yells back. “I got this!”

Keith suddenly fears for his life.

Lance zooms up toward the sky, in some sort of zig-zag pattern that is both incredibly undignified and intent on turning Keith’s organs into scrambled eggs. When they reach the top of a long climb, he makes another one of those jerky movements, and tips the bike forward and _down_.

He’s following the rules, technically – the dive is much less steep than Keith’s, and he pulls out of it sooner, so suddenly it has Keith’s teeth jangling in his skull. Lance proceeds into a series of zany twists and turns, a mockery of a roller coaster: up and down and left and right, and curves so sharply tilted that they almost, _almost_ flip over.

Keith has no fucking idea what Lance is doing – as reckless a pilot as he is, he’s _seasoned_ , and used to being in control of the crazy moves. The way Lance drives is erratic, and Keith’s not sure what’s going to get whiplash first: his neck, or his brain, from trying to predict where the hell Lance is going to take them next.

“You’re the worst pilot ever!” Keith shouts, while Lance hoots and crows and plunges them into another dive. The move leaves Keith’s viscera somewhere in the hovercraft’s wake.

But even now – even like this, with Lance’s unpredictable, clumsy maneuvers tossing them to and fro – the thrill of flying surges in Keith’s veins.

Keith’s fingers curl into Lance’s shirt. The warmth of his skin beams through the fabric. The wind whips at Keith’s clothes, the bike rumbles underneath him – and despite the way his stomach lurches at every turn, he’s actually … happy.

If he does die today, at least it will be smiling.

 

* * *

 

Lance has the energy of a child on a sugar high, and could probably have continued wreaking havoc all night long. Fortunately, they need to get hydrated, which Keith uses as an excuse to call a time out. He picks out a safe spot to land, vigorously backseat driving until they are safely back on the ground. (“Now turn to the left, _gently_ —” “Keith, I _know_!”)

“You’re done flying for today,” Keith announces, but Lance’s manic grin is undeterred.

They end up sitting on top of a tall bluff, eating snacks from Lance’s bag and guzzling down water from the bottles in the Paladin’s storage compartment. Dusk begins to fall, transforming the sky into a beautiful gradient of lilac and gold. Keith gazes out over the desert beneath them. It’s always felt otherworldly to him. He’s stood on planets orbiting faraway stars, but sometimes the most alien landscapes are closest to home.

Perched above this uninhabited realm, Keith Kogane and Lance Álvarez just … talk. Not about anything in particular. Lance chatters on about Hunk, about how that alien rock lady of his likes him back, and how he’s happy for them, and “is it too soon to start planning my best man’s speech?” Keith mostly listens, but when Lance asks him questions, he does his best to answer. He tells Lance that the reason he comes to the Texan desert is because he grew up in a similar place, and Lance nods and goes quiet. _Rich kid at a loss when faced with the plebs,_ Keith thinks wryly.

Lance kicks at a rock. It skitters over the edge of the bluff, and topples down below.

He clears his throat. “Hey … thanks for bringing me out here. It’s been cool.”

“Sure. Um, anytime.”

The corners of Lance’s eyes crinkle up at that.

One long beat passes. The silence seems pregnant, as though the universe is holding its breath – then Keith realizes it’s just him, and reminds himself to exhale.

“You know …” Lance starts, the toe of his sneaker scraping at the dusty ground. “I was always jealous of you.”

Lance’s tone has that genuine edge to it that means shit’s about to get deep. Like, four AM kind of deep. Keith’s muscles tense up, bracing themselves.

“Oh yeah?”

Well, that sounded assholish. _No wonder he hated you._

But Lance only nods.

“Yeah. You were perfect. Everything I wanted to be, with none of my problems. I kind of took it personally.”

“I noticed,” Keith murmurs, bringing his fist up in a curving slow-motion punch and letting it collide gently with Lance’s jaw. Lance’s thin lips quirk into a tiny grin – they’re both remembering that fight they had, so many years ago. Lance started it, but it takes two to tango.

“I never considered where you … where you came from. Or that you might have problems of your own. All I wanted was to beat you. To prove to you and my family and everyone else that I could _be someone_.” He laughs. “Prove it to myself, I guess. I wanted you to admit that I was better. I always felt like I _should_ have been, but I could never live up to this – this image in my own head. If someone else said it, maybe it would be true, you know?”

Keith does not know what to say. Other people share words for comfort and support, but whenever he’s tried, he’s always felt like he’s playing a different key. Connection is a slippery thing, for Keith.

_You’re part alien. Guess that explains a lot._

He’s spared the weight of expectation when Lance turns to him. “But, hey, you know what?”

“What?”

And his smile is a million stars. “Lately, I’ve realized it might be enough as long as you’re proud of me.”

All of a sudden, something is climbing in Keith’s chest, up his throat, making his eyes feel wider and his skin hot and his face and hands and lips _buzz_ —

—and then it comes all the way up, and seizes control of his tongue, and he says—

—he says—

“Lance, I – I have feelings.”

Surprised laughter bubbles out of Lance, even as his cheeks go splotchy. “Oh, really? Where’d you find those? Used, online—”

Fuck.

“For _you_. I have feelings for you.”

Lance’s face stills, and goes through a series of changes so minute but so palpable, softening around the edges, the blue of his eyes melting into liquid pools. Keith feels them mirrored in his own body. He is sure he’s becoming amorphous, transforming into a frequency of bright, tingling joy.

“Shit,” says Lance. Keith feels like he’s floating, suspended in time and space. “Is there, like, a word for wanting to kiss someone so badly you feel your own lungs climbing out your thr—”

The rest of the word is lost inside Keith’s mouth, because he’s grabbed Lance by the front of his sweaty shirt, and he’s kissing him, kissing him as deeply as he can, wanting everything, all at once, right here and right now. _Everything_ is Lance’s lips and teeth and taste, Lance’s fingers grasping his upper arms and Lance’s heartbeat galloping against his ribs.

Keith winds his arms around Lance’s waist, and Lance drapes his over Keith’s shoulders, every point of contact bright like the core of a sun. When their lips break apart, they are still sharing the same sliver of electric air. Keith can see every one of Lance’s long, dark lashes.

“Oh, man,” Lance breathes.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers.

“I—” Lance pauses, eyes widening comically as he clears his throat, like he hadn’t expected something to get stuck there. “I like you too, you know.”

 _I know._ The inside of his chest is a clear and perfect sky.

“Yeah,” Keith says, again.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”

“ _I’m_ sorry I’m so easily baited.”

“Hey, nah. I’m just very good at being annoying.” Lance hiccups a laugh.

“Yeah, you are,” says Keith. His fingers tighten on Lance’s shirt. “And I’m very good at biting back.”

“Hah. True.” Lance blushes – _blushes_ – and fidgets, looking anywhere but at Keith’s face. “So, um. What I’m trying to say is, uh, if you’ll have me …”

Keith’s heart pumps a surge of pure liquid gold into every last inch of his body. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

He does.

He does, and he does, and he does, and for something that is not flying, Keith thinks it comes pretty fucking close.

And with Lance’s body in his arms and Lance’s tongue gentle in his mouth, he allows himself the thought, finally, in so many words:

_I am in love with Lance Álvarez._

Lance breaks the kiss and nuzzles into Keith’s shoulder, body shaking with more of those hiccupping little laughs.

Keith’s skin bubbles like champagne, and he closes his eyes to breathe in the scent of Lance’s hair.

_And he’s a little bit in love with me too._

Lance straightens back up, so that he can look Keith in the eyes.

“Oh, wow,” he breathes. “We’re really doing this.”

Keith’s stomach swoops. “Yeah, we are.”

Lance smirks, but it’s more wavering than cocky. “You scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Keith objects, on instinct, ignoring the whirlwind of emotions inside of him.

“Liar. I’m fucking terrified.” Lance exhales, the not-a-smirk still quirking his lips. “Dude. What would our _parents_ say?”

Keith can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, that’s – shit. This is … pretty weird.”

“Yup. So are you.” Keith rolls his eyes, but the way Lance is looking at him makes up for the jab. “I kinda like it.”

 _Stars._ That’s the kind of killer line that makes him flustered now, is it? “We … uh, we shouldn’t sit out here all night.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Keith whacks Lance lightly on the arm. “No.”

“Good, because I don’t want to win.” Lance’s voice drops low and sultry. “Did you have plans for when we get back …?”

Twin suns start burning in the apples of Keith’s cheeks. “Why d’you ask?”

“Because,” Lance murmurs, “I might have some ideas.”

His belly is clenching, his heartbeat picking up. Keith leans closer. “Yeah? Such as?”

“Well …” Long brown fingers inch toward Keith’s own, until their fingertips are touching. “There’s one thing that’s kinda overdue.”

“What’s that?”

Lance bites his lip, and glances up at Keith through his eyelashes, eyes warm and wet and brilliant blue. “You haven’t fucked me yet.”

Keith spontaneously combusts.

He’s convinced it happens, convinced he transforms into a pillar of flame right on the spot. But no – somehow he’s still alive, just _very_ hot in his skin, and opposite him is Lance, somehow even hotter in his.

He flashes back to his own thirsty, desperate self, grinding up against Lance’s naked body in a hotel bed.

_“Let me fuck you. I wanna fuck you, Lance.”_

_“Not today, cowboy.”_

Today, Keith thinks, giddy all of a sudden, is the day.

Oh, _hell_ yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next one will be a smutfest lol  
> i'm on [tungnlrlgrl!](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com) comments and messages always make my day!! :D


	11. Cerise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which boys will be boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say this time. im really sorry if you're here for the plot. this is just smut from start to finish. if that is the reason you came, however, congratulations!!! i hope u enjoy. didn't have many specific songs in mind for this but Troye Sivan's "My My My!" is hot as fuck so that's a rec.
> 
> also i got called out once for having a really blatant hand kink and am happy to announce i haven't changed! have fun!!!!!

It’s dramatic, the way a landscape can completely change its color scheme as the sun goes down – scorching golds giving way to chilling purples. Lance watches it happen in real time, all around them, as Keith drives them further out into the desert. Distant bluffs and mountains are swallowed by the dark, one after another.

The Paladin cruises just above-ground, a swift and near-silent hover. Lance is disappointed he has to wear the helmet. He wishes he could lean his cheek against Keith’s back, listen to his heartbeat.

Keith’s the Galra heir. Keith, who looks so human, is _part Galra_.

Like Lotor.

What does that mean? What does any of it mean?

Things have stopped mattering to Lance at this point. Right now, he’s suffused with a kind of heavy contentment. And underneath that, a tingling excitement for what’s coming next.

Right now, that’s all that’s important.

A ramshackle little brown building appears in the distance. Lance notes and dismisses it, until Keith, voice muffled by his helmet, says, “That’s where we’re going.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have a shack? Very classy.”

Somehow, Lance _hears_ Keith rolling his eyes.

“I’d come out here sometimes, as a kid. With my dad.”

“Oh,” Lance says, quietly. It’s still strange for him to think about Keith having a life before Lance knew him – a life before he was Keith Kogane.

Lance wonders what Keith’s last name used to be. Reminds himself it’s none of his business. That’s okay, though, because this Keith – present day Keith, right-here Keith – chose _him_.

Maybe Keith will tell him. One day.

They pull up to the shack, and Keith kills the engine. Lance hops off first, sneakers throwing up puffs of dust against the ground.

“You can go inside,” Keith says, nodding at the door, then jerks his thumb at a lower building, huddled up right next to the shack. “I just need to start the generator.”

“Whoa. Rural,” says Lance. He can’t even deny it: Keith being capable of surviving in the middle of nowhere is making the spoiled city-boy parts of him swoon.

But, you know. Just a little bit.

He goes in through the front door, ahead of Keith, lighting his way with his phone flashlight. He sits down on a low, worn couch, beside a cinderblock table, and casts the beam around. An old hunting rifle hangs on the wall opposite Lance. His trigger finger flexes, on instinct.

The place is a tidied mess. Not lived-in, but it clearly used to be. Cardboard boxes and stacks of belongings line the walls. One shelf is taken up by an old-fashioned sound system. A little kitchen nestles in one corner.

 _I’d come out here with my dad._ What kind of life did they have here?

Lance’s skin is tingling. This is the first time he’s been in a space that’s entirely Keith’s, and it’s making him flush with happy excitement. Somehow the feeling is stronger in this desert shack than it was in Lotor’s beautiful penthouse suite.

Thinking about Lotor still racks Lance with deep-seated guilt, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. So he doesn’t think about it. Not now. Banishes the memory of the wounded look in those golden eyes, before they went cold, closed themselves off completely.

_I hurt him, but done is done._

He’s knocked out of his moody reverie when the door opens and Keith comes inside, with Lance’s messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He flicks a switch on the wall, and the lights come on.

“Welcome to my castle,” he says, grinning, and Lance blushes – he recalls saying the same thing, once. It feels like forever ago. “You want to shower?”

“Hmm. Eventually, yes.” Lance’s eyes lick up and down Keith’s body, drinking him in. Just looking at him – the perfectly balanced proportions, muscular legs, long neck – is enough to make his belly pool with heat. _I’m so much more turned on than that generator._ “But I want you first.”

Soft pink stains the apples of Keith’s cheeks, his lips twitching in a tiny smile. He sets the bag down on the floor. “Really.”

“Yeah.” Lance kicks one leg out, dramatically. “Are you ready to deflower me?”

Keith snorts. “I don’t think you’ve had any flowers left in years.”

“Fair,” Lance purrs, demure. He gets to his feet, and steps closer. Keith swallows, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. The column of his throat is sexy. All of him is sexy.

Lance rests his hands behind Keith’s neck, strands of silken hair from Keith’s ponytail tickling his knuckles. Lance’s body gives an involuntary shiver when warm palms land on his hips. His lower body tingles with premonition, with tomorrow’s sweet ache – ready to be wrecked.

He wants Keith to take him apart.

“Kiss me?” Lance breathes, and sees Keith’s eyes glow before he closes his.

Lips land on lips, and he can’t wait, darts his tongue out right away. Keith’s tongue reciprocates, slides into Lance’s mouth. Torrid curtains of sensation sweep down Lance’s body, singe him from head to toe; his lips part, wanting to let Keith reach deeper, have all of him.

Keith smells so good. It’s primal, this seeking heat and scent. Lance is fine with being an animal if _this_ is who he gets to rut with.

Their bodies are pressed together and somehow it’s not enough, will never be enough until they get so close they lose track of their own edges. Hands stroke up and down his hips, then dip under the hem of his baseball shirt. Lance’s breath goes right out of him; he breaks away briefly, to get his bearings back.

There’s a carousel in his head. Bright and colorful and dizzying like a dream. _Am I fucking high right now?_ The amount of happy chemicals surging through his brain feels like it should be illegal. On, like, a federal level.

One of Keith’s hands roams up Lance’s side, tracing the ridges of his ribs. Lance reaches for the other, interlacing their fingers.

Warm skin, cool leather.

Shit. That’s hot. He has a sudden flash of imagination, of Keith touching him with those gloves, all over …

Lance glances at Keith’s hands, his pale callused fingers sheathed in gloves – delicate and strong, like the rest of him. A tight coil forms in Lance’s gut.

His thumb strokes over Keith’s knuckles. Face flushed, deathly aware of his own throbbing pulse, he brings it to his lips and kisses Keith’s fingers. Like a supplicant, to a prince.

_Well, you’re not wrong._

“Hey,” Lance says, embarrassed by how husky his voice sounds already, sticking in his throat even though he hasn’t sucked a single dick today.

“Hey,” Keith says back, and his lips look tense, like he wants to smile wider, but won’t allow himself.

Lance uncurls Keith’s fingers, kisses down to his palm. His cheeks start burning, and he feels suddenly, painfully self-conscious about what he’s going to say next.

“Um … could you leave these on?”

Keith’s full eyebrows – gorgeously arched, even though he doesn’t pluck them; _god_ , life is so unfair – rise on his forehead. “Wha’ssat?”

“Do not make fun of me, you bitch.”

Keith’s face splits into a full-fledged grin. “Leave what on? The gloves?”

“No, your sexy jester’s hat. Of course the gloves.”

“O-ho.” Keith runs his thumb over Lance’s jawbone, then slides one half-gloved hand down the full length of Lance’s arm.

Lance shudders, and Keith says, “Huh.”

 _You piece of shit,_ thinks the tiny part of Lance’s brain not currently occupied with how much he aches for more.

“Sure. I’ll keep them on.”

Keith’s voice is molten gold, and the gleam in his eye is pure mischief, and Lance’s knees are helplessly weak.

“God, _please_ get in me.” He didn’t even mean to say it out loud, but the way Keith’s cheeks redden and his eyes go dark and serious makes him very glad he did.

“Come on,” Keith mumbles, taking Lance’s hands and pulling him into the small bedroom.

They’re both breathing hard. Lance’s heart is pounding in his ears, and Keith’s pulse throbs against his own, where their palms press together. Keith fumbles along the wall for the light switch, and the room fills with an unobtrusive golden glow.

The bedroom is less of a mess than the living area, but just barely. More boxes are pushed up against the walls. There’s a closet, with a full-length mirror on the door. A decorative comforter is spread over the narrow single bed.

Lance’s sex-fogged brain registers some stock-print photographs, hanging crookedly on the walls: a deer in the forest, a bleeding sunset. He can’t believe this deer is going to be watching over him while he gets boned. _Good for you,_ he thinks at it, realizes he’s being deeply weird and is probably more nervous than he thought.

Conclusion: It is a simple room, and highly blessed, because Lance Álvarez is going to take Keith Kogane’s dick here. He is so excited he can hardly breathe.

Keith pulls him close, kisses him; Lance kisses back on instinct, hot and eager, all thoughts melting from his mind. His eyelids slit open; he catches sight of their reflections off to the side, tangled together. It sends a surge of contentment through him, seeing how close they are.

“Lookin’ good, cowboy,” he says, trailing kisses over Keith’s cheekbone, and tilting his head toward the mirror.

“You like seeing yourself?” Keith murmurs, a gleam in his violet eyes.

“Mmhmm …” _Like seeing you all over me._

“I don’t blame you. You look so – shit. You look so damn good.”

The tremor in his voice has Lance breathless. Keith grabs his shoulders, and seizes his mouth again.

They fall onto the bed, kissing hard now – teeth clicking together, awkward and harsh. Ignore it, push through it, clutch him closer – feel the weight of him, his breath warm, his lips hungry.

Lance pulls the tie out of Keith’s hair, and it spills around his jaw, fluffy even after being out all day. He paws at the hem of Keith’s shirt, and Keith pushes himself up into a sitting position. On his back, breathless, Lance never removes his hands from Keith’s hips, lets them caress Keith’s dips and valleys. Keith reaches behind his neck and pulls his tee off with one hand, in one practiced motion. And, oh – Lance is inundated by chest and collarbones and abs. Hunger pulls at him, from deep inside.

And Keith’s back in his arms, the way he likes it. He smells like sweat and the dust of a long day, and underneath it that scent that is particularly _Keith_ , the one that’s begun affecting Lance like a drug – goes straight to his brain, makes his throat tight and his thighs tremble.

“I want you,” Keith says, quiet and earnest. “Can you …” He clears his throat. “Get undressed.”

“Sure thing.” There’s a throb between his legs, hot and deep and rapidly beginning to chafe against the crotch of his pants. They are becoming more superfluous by the minute.

He pulls off his sweaty baseball shirt, shivering a little as the air touches his skin. Kicks off his jeans, toes out of his socks, and—

— _oh._ The look on Keith’s face … part hunger, part awe. Like he’s been starving, and he’s not going to let anything stand between him and his delicious meal.

_That’s me._

His cheeks start to burn. It’s ridiculous on every level – they’ve seen each other’s everything a million times by now – but not like this. Not with Lance’s soft heart on display.

Keith reaches out for him, coaxes him with his hands until Lance turns around, his back lined up with Keith’s stomach. Keith’s hard-on presses into his ass, and it has Lance’s belly dropping as if he’s in free-fall. He can’t resist grinding back into it, making Keith hiss.

“C’mon, over here,” Keith manages to say, then awkwardly knee-walks them into the center of the bed.

 _Oh._ They’re in front of the mirror, and Lance is staring straight into his own dark blue eyes. A violent shiver rocks through him, like that jerk back into wakefulness at the edge of sleep – except he’s already awake, and this dream is his reality.

Keith’s gloved hands slide from his hips and slowly up his chest. The sight of it in the mirror, and the rough leather against his tingling skin … Lance’s teeth sink into his lip.

“Look at you,” Keith whispers into Lances neck. “You look so fucking good.”

He does. He really does. Lance stretches out his body to its full length, admiring his own lanky limbs and smooth brown skin.

“Yeah?” It comes out breathier than he expected.

“Yeah,” Keith purrs, and his fingertips brush Lance’s nipples. It’s an electric shock, right through him – he gasps, back arching, head falling back. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He growls the words into Lance’s ear. Lance is rendered utterly boneless, but for one very prominent exception.

“Me too. Fuck me hard, Keith. I want to feel it until next fuckin’ year.”

Keith’s laughter tickles his earlobe, and his own mouth curls into a grin. Then he gasps again as Keith presses wet kisses to his neck, down to the junction of his shoulder.

“Mm, that feels good.”

“Yeah?” Keith’s arms tighten around Lance. God, the strength in those arms … he’s so glad to be finally giving in to it.

“Do you have lube?” Lance murmurs, and Keith lifts his head from kissing, breath fluttering against Lance’s skin.

“What self-respecting man comes out to an isolated desert shack and doesn’t bring lube?” says Keith, and a snort of laughter and disbelief bursts from Lance’s lips.

“Oh my god. That’s the realest joke you’ve ever made. I can’t believe I’m witnessing Keith’s ascension to relatability—”

“Hey, shut up,” Keith says amicably. “Wait here.”

He gets out of bed, and Lance’s eyes zone right in on his ass. It looks delicious in those tight, tight pants, as he disappears into what Lance assumes is the bathroom. _Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go, babe._

Lance takes advantage of this moment where he doesn’t have Keith all over him, and steps out of his boxer briefs. He’s hard, dick curving against his stomach, his insides hot, so hot.

Keith comes back out of the bathroom, small bottle in hand. He smiles when he sees Lance waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in bed, lazily touching himself.

“Starting without me?”

“Couldn’t wait.”

He walks up to Lance, leans down to kiss him. Lance kisses back, messy, reaching for the back of Keith’s neck again. There are baby hairs at his nape, velvety soft.

Keith’s thumb ghosts over Lance’s lips, and Lance flicks his tongue out, to lick at it, toy with it. Breath hitching, Keith dips his thumb into Lance’s mouth. Lance grabs his entire hand, sucks on Keith’s middle and index fingers, clutching at the warm leather and tasting Keith’s skin.

“Shit, you _like_ that.”

“Mmm …” Lance moans around his fingers, then slips off and adds, “Guess I’m just a sucker.”

“Don’t make puns in bed or I swear I’ll shank you.”

“With your dick?”

“That’s right.”

Lance sucks Keith’s index finger again, staring him straight in the eyes the entire time, and watches his annoyed expression melt into one of pure bliss. He lets the digit slip free with a pop, smirks up at him.

Keith growls, deep in his throat. “Fuck, I wanna be inside you so bad.”

“Your lines are embarrassing. Super hot, but embarrassing.”

“Good to know. Get on your knees.”

He does, weight sinking into what little of the firm mattress there is to sink into, and wiggles his ass a bit for good measure. One gloved palm lands on it, squeezes; Lance’s mind nearly goes blank from delight.

“Do you like it when I tell you what to do?”

“Mm … shut up, Kogane.”

“Do you?”

“Well … maybe a little bit.”

Lance buries his nose in the sheets, sticks his ass in the air. He hears the cap pop, and looks up to peek at their reflections. Keith’s expression is endearingly serious as he slicks up his hand. He’s tossed the lube and a couple of condoms onto the bed beside them.

Okay, looks like Lance won’t have to break out the stuff he brought along. Saying he’d planned for this would be an understatement.

Keith’s eyes meet Lance’s in the mirror, making him lose his breath all over again. Keith traces Lance’s rim with his fingertip, and Lance hisses at the chill.

“Cold?”

“Uh-huh. Put it in already.”

“Sorry. I’m just … I’m a bit …”

“Overwhelmed?” Lance says, smugly. Keith’s cheeks go slightly pink.

“Mm.”

“So blessed, so moved, so grateful—”

“Why are you like this even when I’m about to put a foreign object in your asshole?”

“It’s part of the experience.” He pauses. “Also, I’m nervous as hell.”

“Don’t be,” Keith whispers, and pushes a finger inside him, slick and surprisingly easy.

 _He’s still wearing the gloves._ Lance’s brain nearly whites out.

He rocks his hips softly against Keith’s hand. The other one lands on Lance’s pelvis, helps pull him back onto Keith’s fingers. “Wow. You’re so …”

“Ready?”

“… yeah.”

“Mm. You know,” Lance babbles, getting more incoherent with every stroke of Keith’s finger inside of him, “I was – I was hoping we would do this. Today.”

“You wanted me.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, meeting his reflection’s hazy eyes, “so fuckin’ badly. Might’ve prepared myself last night … thinkin’ ’bout you.”

“Fuck,” says Keith, under his breath. He adds a second finger, and it makes Lance’s hips tremble uncontrollably. “Thinking what about me?”

“Thought about this.” Lance lifts one leg up behind him and rubs his calf into Keith’s groin, relishing the low groan it elicits. “Thought about feeling so good I can’t breathe … mmh, oh, shit …” Keith’s fingers scissor inside him, and he has to pause, hold his breath, try not to collapse face-first onto the mattress.

“You’re so hot,” Keith whispers, and Lance just moans, pushes back on him.

He lets himself be loud. He’s waited a very long time for this.

“Oh, _fuck_ , so good.”

Keith grabs Lance’s right shoulder, pulling him up far enough that he can lean forward and lick a stripe up the side of Lance’s face. Lance’s ability to think drops straight out of his brain.

“Oh my god. Fuck, Keith, I want you so much.”

Keith’s muscles stiffen, and his heartbeat quadruples against Lance’s back.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Lance babbles on, “since the beginning, shit, I knew it would feel good – that’s why I wouldn’t let you fuck me, I was terrified of how amazing I knew it would be—mmmh …”

“You like it?” Keith growls, low in his throat, and Lance has never regretted any decision less. He wants to give up everything, every last scrap of control. He wants Keith to pick him up and toss him around and make him feel beautiful. “You like taking it?”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes. “Love it.”

To drive the point home, he grinds his ass up against Keith’s body, relishing the way the breath catches in Keith’s throat.

“Okay then.”

For some reason, Keith’s not out of his pants yet. He keeps one hand on Lance’s waist as he turns away to take them off, then rolls on a condom.

“Shit shit shit,” Lance chants under his breath, as Keith gets back behind him, his body heat melding with Lance’s own.

Just the tip of Keith’s dick sliding between his cheeks has the strength leaking out of Lance’s arms. And when he pushes in—

—it burns at first, and he’s holding his breath from anticipation, eyes clenched shut, every muscle taut—

—and then, as he gets used to it, Keith starts to move.

It drives his heartrate through the _roof_.

_Keith Kogane is inside me._

Some part of his mind registers this thought, remarkably clear and tinged with past horror. But that feeling belongs to an old world, an old mistake, and having Keith thrust into him so hard he sees stars is something the new Lance can’t do anything but adore.

It’s even better than he expected.

“That feels so good, mm, harder, Keith, please—”

“It’s so sexy when you beg,” Keith breathes, and Lance flushes all the way down his chest.

“I can’t help it,” he whines. “I want it so much. Just … don’t stop fucking me. Never stop, don’t stop, don’t—ohhh …”

He doesn’t stop, and Lance loses track of time. His hands fist in the sheets, knuckles turning white. His eyes find mirror-Lance’s eyes, and they’re glazed with arousal, color high on his cheeks, his mouth slackly open. He’s probably drooled at some point. Didn’t even notice.

When Keith finds Lance’s cock and starts to touch him, the friction from the gloves nearly drives him over the edge then and there. The sensation is so _much_ ; he’s nearly in pain from it, but he wants it to keep going forever. He makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan, could swear those are tears forming in his eyes.

They thrust against one another too zealously, and Keith’s dick slips out of him. Lance turns his head to look at him, managing a shaky grin. “Hey, get back here.”

“Turn around?” Keith says, voice all wobbly, as he readjusts the condom on his hard, wonderful cock. “So I can look at you.”

_Oh._

Well, he’s not about to refuse.

He flips over onto his back. The cool sheets feel good against his used body. Lance props his legs on Keith’s shoulders, grabs onto the backs of his own thighs. He’s open and vulnerable, and he loves it.

Keith lines himself up and slides back inside Lance. All Lance can do is throw his head back against the pillow, close his eyes, become his body – every movement, every sensation filling him completely.

Keith’s thrusting slower this time. Pushing all the way inside, pulling back out and leaving Lance deliciously raw until the next stroke.

“Fuck, baby,” Lance moans, “mmm—” He breaks off into laughter, sweet hiccups of pleasure. He’s _happy_ , damn it; he’s being absolutely pounded by a boy he adores, and _god_ , he’s over the fucking moon.

“You’re beautiful,” Keith breathes, and oh – bright fireworks burst on the surface of Lance’s skin—

—and Keith grunts as Lance’s body tightens around him—

—and he manages to gasp _I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming_ , just before he releases, spattering Keith’s chest and his own.

Lance comes back down, mind still glowing white at the edges, like the afterimage of a camera flash. His hips are weak, trembling. Aching the way he hoped they would.

He looks up at Keith, still above him, still inside him. His brows are knitted together, his teeth gritted, as if he’s trying hard not to explode.

_But I want him to._

Lance reaches out one lazy hand, running his fingers down Keith’s collarbones, tracing paths to his nipples.

He circles one of them, pinches. “Come on me, babe.”

It looks like something actually pops behind Keith’s eyes, and Lance, even through the cozy fog he’s embedded in, allows himself to feel _smug_.

“Please. I’m into it.”

“Fuck.” Keith pulls out of him – and shit, it has Lance really feeling how much he’s pulsing down there; so empty, so stretched wide.

Face and neck covered in a deep flush, standing on his knees between Lance’s legs, Keith rolls the condom off and starts to jerk himself. Every muscle is tense, bulging. He’s so sexy Lance thinks he might die.

Lance bites his lip, looks up kittenish and sultry, arches his spine just so. Keith’s breath hitches. A prominent vein stands out on his neck, his pulse so quick Lance can actually see it flutter.

He runs his tongue slowly along his upper lip, and smiles.

Keith _snaps_ – he curses high and sharp, and his eyes screw themselves shut, and he comes white ribbons that land hot and sticky on Lance’s chest and stomach.

“Oh, shit.” He lowers himself, on shaky arms, until he’s hovering above Lance, nearly collapses onto him before realizing his mistake and falling to the side instead.

Lance wouldn’t have minded if they made a mess. They’re showering after this, anyway. Having an exhausted Keith curl up beside him isn’t too bad, though.

He scrapes some of Keith’s cum off his belly and onto his fingers. Looks Keith straight in the eye, and slowly licks them clean.

A weak _damn_ drops from Keith’s lips, and Lance smirks.

“How do you do that?” Keith mumbles, from where he’s flopped onto his side, long black hair half covering his face.

“Do what? Look, being slutty is a lot of things, but difficult isn’t one of them.”

Keith chuckles, reaches out his still-gloved hand and runs it up Lance’s thigh. It’s electric; if he wasn’t still recovering, Lance has a feeling he’d have gotten hard immediately.

“No, I mean, how do you look so fucking fantastic just by doing … nothing?”

Lance laughs, and he swears his whole _body_ is blushing, his stomach tingling, his heart warm. “Back atcha. I thought you’d know. You’re the expert, babes.”

“This some sort of challenge?”

“Not even remotely, but sure, I’m in. How do we prove who’s hotter? Do we pose in swimsuits? Fight to the death?”

Keith just laughs, and pulls Lance closer, and lips are on lips and a hand is on Lance’s waist and _fuck_ , his sense of humor just straight up abandons him, entirely replaced by how amazing Keith’s mouth feels.

“Or that,” he says, dazed, when they break apart. “I’m fine with that too.”

“I mean, I’d love to see you in a swimsuit.” Keith grins, and he looks like a kid for a second. He’s so goddamned adorable. The fatal blow comes when he leans in, kisses the tip of Lance’s nose. “So, shower?”

Part of Lance is convinced it takes him ten full minutes to answer. Time stretches out, turns gooey, like the inside of his mind. “Uh. Yeah, uh-huh.” He smiles. “Hop in with me?”

“As good as that sounds, my shower is really fuckin’ small.”

“I’ll press close,” Lance murmurs, runs his bare foot down Keith’s shin. He pushes, and Keith yields, opening his legs enough for Lance to stick his in between them. Lance closes his eyes, enjoys the feeling of their fuzzy legs tangled together. “Stick to you like a koala or some shit.”

“If we slip and get concussed, I’ll be too out of it to get hard again,” Keith points out, and Lance groans, theatrically.

“Alas, you’re right. That would be a _disaster_.”

“The end of the world.”

“Armageddon.”

Keith chuckles softly – pretty, so pretty it hurts. “D’you wanna go first?”

“Might as well. Rinse the sand out of my ass crack, all that.”

“Adds some nice texture, though.”

“I hate you,” Lance groans, insincerely. “How do you even get running water out here?”

“State-of-the-art pump system. It’s in better shape than the actual house.”

“Huh.”

“Space travel is possible. It’s not that impressive.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s the door right there.” Keith points. “Probably not what you’re used to. I don’t have any complimentary scented lotions.”

“I can survive _one_ day without moisturizer,” Lance says, but even he hears how fake it sounds. Keith smirks at him, confirming that his face has committed some sort of betrayal. He sighs. “Do you have towels?”

Armed with a threadbare towel from Keith’s closet – followed by Keith’s cool gaze, daring him to disapprove – Lance makes his way into the bathroom. On the way, he exchanges a triumphant glance with that stupid deer photo. _Score, buddy._

It’s true that Keith’s bathroom isn’t what he’s used to. Small and simple, no frills, barely enough space to turn around in. Lance refuses to be the kind of rich brat who wrinkles his nose if he doesn’t have multiple pressure jets and an array of sweet-smelling products to douse himself in. Gingerly, he steps into the little shower booth.

He turns the knob, yelps as a red-hot cascade of water assails his skin. He spends a solid minute adjusting the temperature, then gets underneath the spray and rinses off whatever dust is left from the ride, and the sweat and cum from sex.

Sex with his boyfriend. They haven’t said the word, but that’s what this means, isn’t it?

_Keith’s my boyfriend._

Hunk will never let him live this down.

As he closes his eyes, enjoys the heat of the water trickling down his body, he relives flying. Driving the Paladin.

It was thrilling. His muscles were aching just from tensing them so hard.

But it was nothing compared to the ride his heart was put through when Keith told him how he felt. When Lance responded.

_We like each other._

A smile curls onto his face, so wide his cheeks hurt. He blames his flush on the hot water.

He hops out of the shower and towels off his skin, heroically managing not to think about scaly patches and encroaching dryness.

Keith passes him on his way back. His eyes, dark and hooded, catch Lance’s, sending a zing of pleasure down Lance’s spine.

Overwhelmed. Floating. Desperately turned on. There are many words for what he’s feeling.

Mainly, though, he’s deeply into a guy who feels the same, and he’s pretty sure he could fight the sky for him if he needed to.

While he waits for Keith to finish, he lies down on his back, stares up at the ceiling. There’s a crack in the wall that he traces with his eyes. He breathes deeply. His body is heavy, and his stomach is filled with pleased, happy warmth.

Surprisingly quick, Keith comes back out. Towel around his waist, nothing else. The ends of his hair are damp, occasionally dripping onto his shoulders. One drop finds its way out of the dip of his collarbone, trickles slowly over the broad expanse of his chest.

 _I want to lick it off him,_ Lance thinks.

He can do that, if he wants.

Keith is Lance’s. Lance is Keith’s. Something deep in Lance’s core begins to glow.

“Hey,” Keith says.

“Hey yourself. Get back here, I wanna make out.”

“Hold on, I’m parched. You want a drink of water?”

 _So responsible._ Lance sighs in mock-exasperation. “Yeah, sure. Guess I’ll hydrate, whatever.”

Grinning, Keith disappears, presumably into the kitchen. He comes back with two plastic bottles, says “Catch” before tossing one to Lance. Even in his noodly state of post-coital bliss, Lance manages to grab it out of the air. Pride intact, for now.

Turns out he _is_ thirsty, in more ways than one. He gulps down half the bottle in one go.

Keith gets back into bed beside him, looping his arm around Lance’s waist. Lance snuggles up against him, loves how their entire bodies are touching one another. He places his hand over Keith’s now-bare one, where it’s resting on his belly.

“There are so many things I want to do to you,” Keith murmurs against Lance’s ear. For a moment, Lance is completely sure his lungs and stomach have switched places.

“Makin’ up for lost time?” Lance says. He sounds breathy. He sounds like he just got fucked to hell and back.

“Mmm,” Keith hums, starts kissing Lance’s neck.

Then they’re not talking anymore, and Lance is turning in Keith’s arms, so that he’s facing him. Their chests press together, heartbeats so close that, for a moment, Lance imagines he has two.

Keith rolls them over, putting Lance on his back. Lance wraps his arms around Keith, running his hands down his shoulder blades and the groove of his spine, exploring the ripple of powerful muscles as Keith kisses his ears and face and throat.

Then Keith slides down Lance’s body, mouth trailing over his collarbones and sternum, finally dragging his tongue over Lance’s nipple. Lance’s hips buck up, involuntarily.

“Keith, fuck—”

Keith sucks the hardened peak into his mouth, biting ever-so-slightly before flicking it with his tongue again. Lance lets out a long, shuddering breath, slowly lowering his pelvis back onto the mattress.

He moves down Lance’s stomach, glancing up through thick eyelashes and thicker bangs. He spreads Lance’s thighs further apart, and _god_ , Lance wants that mouth on his cock so badly he could _kill_ for it.

And it’s about to happen, he knows it is—

—but all of a sudden, Keith freezes between Lance’s legs, and sits up, and stares down at him.

A split second later, Lance realizes why.

The insides of his thighs are dappled purple. Faint bruises bloom on the tender skin, a claim made in crescents.

He covered up the bites on his neck, let them heal. But Lotor had been rougher on his legs.

His thighs start to tremble, from deep within the muscles. Waves of terrified elation are lapping through his mind. Keith has really seen everything, now.

He’s half expecting Keith to growl and rip a chunk out of his flesh, but his expression stays remarkably cool.

“You know,” Keith says, in a low voice, “I never told you this, but I’m kind of possessive.”

 _It’s okay. It turns me on._ Is he a horrible person? Probably. Does he care? Well, maybe later.

“I, uh …”

“So this,” Keith interrupts, his fingertips caressing the markings left on Lance’s skin, “makes me a little bit angry.”

Heat stirs inside of Lance, tight and desperate. Being wanted like this … the part of him that gets off on being bossed around has woken up, and it’s having a field day.

Keith’s eyes narrow, and he dips back down between Lance’s thighs. Lance is trembling like crazy. Should he say something? Does Keith want an explanation, or—

 _“Ah!”_ Teeth press into Lance’s skin, and then Keith’s lips are there, kissing the spot, suckling it until Lance is shivering from perfect pleasure-pain.

He feels fresh blotches forming.

Keith is making his mark.

He looks up, from between Lance’s legs, eyes daring him to object.

“You’re the only one I want,” Lance breathes, his fingers twisting into Keith’s silky black hair. “I’m yours, Keith, so—do whatever you want to me—”

Keith swears, under his breath. “You mean that?”

“I really do.”

Keith sucks another hickey onto Lance’s thigh. It hurts so _good_. He wouldn’t mind being turned into a leopard-print of love bites, at this rate.

“I wanna fuck you again.”

Lance bursts into helpless giggles. That’s all? “So what are you waiting for?”

So they get a new condom, and more lube, and this time Lance stays on his back. He gets to see Keith pushing into him – see the way he squeezes his eyes shut, the way his lips part in bliss when he bottoms out.

Lance stutters his hips, his body begging Keith to move. And he does – starts off slow, until Lance whines and stretches up to kiss him. He builds up a quick rhythm, and Lance can’t think anymore, just focuses on remembering to breathe.

Keith’s cock slides out of him, and Lance loses his breath all over again, can barely catch it before he thrusts back in firmer and sweeter. Lance scrabbles at his back, his fingers slipping against sweat-slick skin. His pelvis pushes upward, their hipbones biting into one another harsh and delicious. “Oh shit shit shit … you feel so good, ah—”

Keith looks down at him, and between heavy breaths, manages:

“Lance, I—”

“What is it, cowboy?” Lance breathes. “You wanna admit defeat? _Shit, Lance, you’re such a good bottom, I can’t believe I thought I could out-hoe you_ —”

“Shut _up_.”

He grins slyly. “Make me.”

And he does, with messy kisses, with that touch that’s all over, with rolls of his hips that are just as perfect every time. Lance leans his head back against the pillow, feels the bed rocking beneath them, and Keith’s weight pressing him down, and cool air against his overheating skin. Keith’s in him and around him, and it’s _good_ , so goddamn good.

This time, they get to the edge together. Lance comes with a monumentally embarrassing noise, but Keith doesn’t seem to notice, too busy moaning into Lance’s shoulder and spilling everything he has.

Sweaty and sticky and laughing, Keith collapses on top of Lance. Pressing close, until the space between them disappears, and Keith’s warmth is Lance’s is Keith’s.

At the end of the day, Lance is a romantic.

_I love feeling your skin on mine._

_I love the way your eyebrows soften when you smile._

_I love the way you look at the person I am, and convince me that he matters._

_I love …_

Keith exhales, long and shaky, and leans in until his forehead is resting against Lance’s. Lance’s thoughts disperse, and then Keith is all there is.

Keith’s scent. Keith’s skin. Keith’s warmth.

Lance relishes all of it. His limbs are heavy from sweet exertion. The constant fighting inside his head about who he is and who other people are and how all those things come together retreats and quiets down.

Now he’s next to Keith, whom he cares for, and who cares for him in return.

Brightness flutters to life in Lance’s chest. He brushes the tip of his nose gently against Keith’s, and completely fucking melts when Keith’s nose wrinkles up in response.

“You help me be better,” Lance whispers into Keith’s hair, and squeezes him tighter when Keith’s heartbeat hiccups against his ribs. “You’re so brilliant. I’m glad I can just … say that now. Not be such a little bitch about it.”

“I …” Keith pauses, hesitant, and Lance’s insides do a nervous somersault – he’s always hanging on what Keith has to say. _I’m still so fucking needy. What if that scares him away?_ “The way I feel about you – is new.”

“New?” He tries not to make it a question. It comes out like one anyway.

“I used to feel so fucking hopeless.” Keith swallows. “But with you, I’m … I’m okay.”

Keith’s face cracks into a smile, and Lance’s arms act on their own, pull him in, kiss his grinning mouth firm and tender.

They lie that way, snuggling, for a long time. Keith spooning Lance, legs entangled, fingers interlaced.

Lance doesn’t want to get up, ever, but his stomach disagrees, shattering the mood with its loud growling.

Keith’s puffs of laughter ghost against the nape of his neck. “Hungry?”

“I guess. You got some canned peaches or something?”

“There’s cereal bars.”

“That’ll do.”

They haul their asses out of bed, rinse off in the bathroom sink, and change into fresh shirts and underwear – Lance running into the living room naked, so he can get his stuff out of his bag. Keith retrieves some nonperishable snacks from a cupboard, and Lance tears the wrapper off a cereal bar and digs in.

“You want some tea or something?” asks Keith, already putting a kettle on the stove. “I’ve got matcha. There’s probably musty Earl Grey around here somewhere, too.”

“You don’t strike me as a green tea person.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno. It just seems so … wholesome.”

“Ha ha.” Keith shrugs. “Junko practically snorts this shit. I guess I got used to it.”

 _Junko._ It’s weird to hear Madame Kogane described as a person, with a life and a beverage preference, and not just a distant, threatening presence.

“Sure, I’ll have some musty Earl Grey.”

While Keith fetches cups and a tea strainer for Lance, Lance sits down on the saggy little couch. One of the many cardboard boxes beside the couch is open, and he can’t help himself – he peers inside.

It’s a motley assortment of things. A couple pots and pans. Something that looks like a whittling knife, in a leather sheath. Some action figures that Lance imagines a young Keith playing with. His heart clenches up.

“Are you snooping?” Keith asks, from where he’s pouring tea, and Lance jumps guiltily.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t mind. It’s all old junk, anyway.”

Lance peeks back into the box. “Hey, these are cool.” He unearths a pair of aviator goggles with an elastic blue band, and puts them on without asking. “Check it out. I look like a space pirate.”

“You look dumb.”

“Well, they’re yours, so I think this says more about you.”

Keith grins. “They suit you, though. Keep ’em.”

Lance sticks out his tongue, but leaves the goggles on. His heart feels embedded in cotton.

Keith brings their steaming cups of tea over, and sits down on the couch next to Lance. They chat as they drink it, about nothing in particular, as if the outside world doesn’t exist.

“So now what?” Lance says, after an eternity. “You wanna go to bed?”

They exchange a look – as long as they’re awake enough to kiss each other, they’ll probably end up boning again. Lance’s hands and lips and thighs are still tingling.

“Yeah, my ass might need a break.”

“Wanna go outside?” Keith suggests.

“Why not?”

They go to put on pants – Lance his same old blue jeans, Keith a pair of loose sweatpants that have Lance’s throat tightening so much he’s afraid he’ll choke.

“Put a coat on, too,” says Keith. “The desert gets cold at night.”

Lance grabs the blanket slung over the back of the couch and throws it around his shoulders. “This all right?”

Keith grins. “Yeah, sure.”

Keith, always a step ahead, opts for his cropped jacket instead of following Lance’s blanket-toga example. They slip into their shoes and shuffle out onto the porch, and indeed – a chilly wind sweeps by. Lance tugs the blanket tighter around himself.

They sit down on the edge of the porch steps, feet resting on the dusty, shrubby ground. Keith puts his arm around Lance’s shoulders. Lance’s face, out of sheer reflex, relaxes into a dopey smile.

“Look up,” Keith mumbles against Lance’s temple.

He turns his eyes skyward – to that swath of endless black, scattered with stars. So many, out here, with nothing interfering. No cities, no lights, no people. Just them and the land and the heavens.

They’ve both been above and beyond those skies. And Keith – if those shady Galra are to be believed – has his blood-roots somewhere among them.

It’s dizzying. Lance digs his heels deeper into the earth, to ground himself, remind himself of the planet beneath him. The illusion of solidity is comforting, even though he knows they’re spinning through the universe at a baffling speed.

He exhales, heavier than he intended, a sigh from deep in his stomach.

Keith Kogane pulls him closer, placing another soft kiss against the top of his head.

Lance Álvarez leans into him, and allows himself to feel every rose-tinted wave lapping through his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh there we go :'3 i'm glad they got to have a good time. plot will kick into motion next ch for the final arc. thanks for being so patient, guys. your comments, asks and messages mean the world.
> 
> kinkshame me on [tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com)!


	12. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a storm approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i can't believe i've finally broken 100k. last one was all porn and this one is all plot. enjoy!

The stark, practical walls of the Blade of Marmora’s base seem to be glaring at him, the antithesis of the gilded intimacy of Kolivan’s study.

Keith and Shiro arrived this morning, after Ulaz left an encrypted message for Keith a few days back, containing coordinates, a date, and a time.

“We’re just going to show up?” Keith said, as he shared the message with Shiro. He was irritated, but anticipation still simmered inside him – as cryptic and infuriating as the Blade is, it’s his only tie to the heritage he’s finally uncovered.

“I don’t think the Blade is all that concerned with RSVP:ing,” Shiro replied dryly, and Keith scowled, uncharacteristically offended at being ordered around. _Don’t they know who I am?_

Well, they do know. They knew better than even he did.

So here he is, in this secret base hidden between two black holes and a supergiant star. Summoned to discuss the future of the Blade, of the Galra Kingdom, and of the universe in its entirety.

The room’s ceiling is high, the table long and oval. Thace and Ulaz are both here, as are a handful of other high-ranking Blades, twelve or thirteen in total. The overhead lights cast all of their faces in a ghostly lilac glow.

Kolivan stands at the table’s head, white braid thrown over his shoulder, yellow eyes revealing nothing.

“You all know why you’re here,” he says, his deep voice effortlessly commanding. “The time has come for the resistance to strike back against the tyranny of King Zarkon. If we win this fight, there may be a bright future in store for the Galra Kingdom. But if we lose, the universe may soon be dealing with a Galra Empire.”

Kolivan lets his words sink in. No one else speaks. Keith glances to the side, at Shiro. His expression is composed, his dark eyes steely – the shell of Shirogane the soldier concealing Keith’s dearest friend.

“We’re going to need to train for this mission,” Kolivan continues. “We’ll only have one chance, and we have to be as prepared as we can possibly manage if we want to pull this off. The goal is to secure the palace. We have enough proof to demand a trial, but if we don’t take Zarkon’s stronghold, he’ll stamp us out before that has a chance to happen. The way he destroyed the old line – that’s all going to repeat itself if we aren’t able to strike first.”

Kolivan clasps his hands behind his back. Keith’s sitting perfectly still, but his heart is ticking faster behind his ribs, as if it’s already sensing the tension of battle to come.

“There is already dissent among the populace. The military control, the isolation from the rest of space – people aren’t blind, and they aren’t looking upon this with favorable eyes. Zarkon’s core of extremists supports him no matter what, but they are a minority. His leadership may be strong, but it is also hated.”

He lifts one large hand, gesturing toward Keith.

“This is Keith Kogane. Half-human, half-Galra, and last living blood relative of Queen Marmora. Legitimate heir, and challenger to Prince Lotor’s claim.”

Pairs upon pairs of yellow eyes swivel and land on Keith. Caught in their beam, his shoulders begin to climb toward his ears. He forces them back down, and his chin up.

“I’m ready to do everything I can to help,” he says.

Kolivan nods briefly. “What we need from you, Keith, is a recorded message to broadcast to the people, to get this information out where everyone can see it. Also, a DNA sample. Blood, or hair, to prove the truth beyond a doubt.”

“Sure.” His head’s spinning. Part of him is still convinced this is a dream he might wake from. What’s he going to do when he sees reality written in his own flesh? _Half-breed. Outsider._ The words sting him. Still, he’s prepared to fight. “Then what?”

“Then you’ll be free to go.”

A lump of ice hardens in Keith’s belly. He could swear the floor falls out beneath his feet. “Wh— _what_?”

“Once we have that information, it’s enough to prove the illegitimacy of Zarkon’s rule.” It’s like he’s hearing Kolivan through water, his head filling with burbling white noise. “It will be the seal on the evidence of his crimes of insurrection. You may return to your home. We can provide a Marmora guard if it will help you feel safer, but attacking you would be an unlikely course of—”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Keith exclaims. “I’m not going to just stand by and watch!”

“Keith—”

“The universe is at stake. We’re dealing with a power-hungry madman, we’re the _only ones_ who can stop him, and you expect me to just _go home_?”

“This _we_ does not include you. The Blade has made its decision.”

_The Blade, or you?_

“Why bother bringing me here, then?” Keith’s hands tighten into fists, nails searing painful crescents into his palms. “I can _fight_.”

“So can I,” Shiro cuts in. “We’re willing to help. More hands is not going to hurt on a mission like this one. I’m a decorated veteran, and I can vouch for Keith’s skill.”

Keith turns to stare at Shiro, shock vibrating through him. Somehow, he’d seen himself going into this alone. Shiro being there, too … Keith is gripped with paralyzing terror at the possibility of anything happening to him.

“Shiro—”

Shiro glances at Keith, out of the corner of those pretty dark eyes. The bright lights have washed the warm hues out of his face, but they can’t touch the determination in his expression. “Hey. I owe you one.”

Keith swallows a lump in his throat. _Stubborn son of a bitch._ It’s so strange, how Keith can want to lean into him and disappear, and simultaneously want to stand up tall to make him proud.

Kolivan ignores their moment entirely. “Being able to is one thing, but this is a Blade mission. We do not wish to involve you more than we already have.”

“Hold on a second.” Keith takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax his clenched fists. “These people are supposed to respect me as the heir to their kingdom while I sit around and do _nothing_?”

Across the table, Ulaz and Thace exchange an uncomfortable glance.

“What?” Keith demands. “What is it?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Say your coup is successful,” he begins, his tone guarded. “What happens next?”

Kolivan, hands still clasped behind his back, fixes his amber gaze on Shiro’s. His voice is as expressionless as his face. “We install a provisional government. Then it’s up to the people.”

“You never intended to let Keith take the throne,” Shiro says. It’s not a question.

“No,” Kolivan replies, without missing a beat. And although there’s no true reason for it, the single word still feels like a knife between Keith’s ribs.

_I finally had a destiny._

_And now—_

_—who am I now?_

“Would you care to explain why?” Shiro shoots back, undeterred.

“The Galra as a people have had enough of rulers inheriting through blood – whether that blood flows through their own veins or pours from the slit throats of others. It is high time for us to move into the future.”

The blood in Keith’s veins is only running cold. Conflicting emotions tangle together inside of him. The relief of an impossible responsibility lifted, in a senseless dance with crushing disappointment.

_I don’t belong. Not here either._

“What future do _you_ want?” Shiro asks. “And Keith’s right – why bother to bring us here, if you only wanted him as a puppet?”

Kolivan shakes his head. “You misunderstand. Our goal is to found a council, democratically elected.” His gaze moves from Shiro to Keith. “Keith, you are of the old blood. That still means something to many Galra. It is possible that there will be a spot on that council for you, if you should want it. It is in that respect that we have brought you here today.”

Oh.

A place for him, after all.

It takes him a few moments to get his bearings back.

“To be honest, it doesn’t matter to me if I have royal blood or not,” Keith says finally, and swallows. “None of that will matter if there is no _after_. And all of that hinges on _this battle_. If I’m truly Galra, then I want to fight for them. For us.”

“That is … unadvisable.”

Something cracks in Keith’s mind, sharp as a gunshot. The last of his patience trickles out through the exit hole.

He stands up abruptly.

“So this knife is just a decoration to you?” he exclaims, whipping it out of the loop on his belt, beneath his suit jacket.

Some of the Blades around the table begin rising to their feet, reaching for their own weapons, but Kolivan lifts his hand in a signal for them to halt. Keith’s heart pounds against his ribcage, so hard it must be half out of his body by now.

“I can _fight_ ,” Keith repeats. Deep breaths. _Patience yields focus._ “I promise you I can prove myself capable. You are doing the _right thing_. And from the bottom of my heart, I want to be a part of that.”

And then, so subtly that at first he doesn’t notice, a peculiar warmth suffuses Keith’s body. Starting at his heart, spreading through his veins and doubling, tripling with every beat. Like sinking into hot water, like kissing the man he loves. It concentrates to the palm of his right hand, and—

—and the glyph on his knife emits a burst of white light, the pulse rippling through his chest like a flower blooming.

When the light subsides, Keith is holding not a knife, but a sword.

The blade is long and curved, one edge inlaid with a glowing ribbon of lavender light, the other deadly sharp. Its weight in his hand is perfectly balanced. The rightness of it all, ingrained deep in his bones, distracts him from the fact that he just witnessed some sort of magic.

_A sword. Of course._

“What … just happened?” Shiro’s voice is the anchor that brings Keith back to earth. Or, well, to the Marmoran space station.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but the faces of the other Blades seem infused with a new respect.

“You’ve woken the Blade,” Kolivan says. Is that the barest hint of surprise?

The sword hums in Keith’s hand, a frequency only he can hear. His arm is still warm, as if submerged in liquid, and the blade is an extension of it, a part of him. Something alive.

“What does that mean?”

Keith’s glad Shiro is speaking for him, because he’s still speechless – holding this sword, _his_ sword, is more meaningful than words could ever be.

“When a Marmoran shows true conviction of heart,” says one of the Blades, a woman with a jagged scar, “his blade will assume a form just as true.”

“It means he’s _worthy_ ,” says Thace, with a look at Kolivan that implies this isn’t the first time this topic has come up. “They’re right. Having more people on board is only going to help. If Keith wants to join us, he should.”

Murmurs of approval, from around the table.

_Straighten your back. Stand tall._

Kolivan frowns. Looks around at his people, then back at Keith.

“You are certain you wish to do this?”

“Yes.” He sends a prayer of gratitude to whatever force prevents his voice from trembling.

He can’t read the look that Kolivan rests on him, for several endless seconds. Each and every Galra gaze burns sizzling holes into Keith’s chest.

But finally, the Marmora leader exhales, his shoulders sloping ever-so-slightly.

“Very well,” Kolivan says, and Keith’s heart leaps in his chest. “Training begins in one week. You know where to find us.”

 

* * *

 

The Kogane space station is vast, but tucked inside one of its cozy, plush lounges, it feels like it could be a hole-in-the-wall place on Earth. Like all Keith would have to do is step outside this room to end up on a bustling night-time street.

His face still feels flushed from sparring. His muscles are filled with a good ache. The meeting with the Blade left him wound up to the point of bursting. Thank the stars Shiro was there to help him work it off with kicks and punches.

Shiro’s in the dark red couch opposite Keith, smoking an ornate hookah pipe. It’s slender, a delicate lattice of gold and glass. Sweet, fragrant smoke billows around him, a crisp blend of fruit and mint that tickles Keith’s nose. It’s the only kind of smoke Keith will tolerate when they’re alone together. He’d prefer none at all, but for a man with a bruiser’s physique, Shiro’s puppy eyes are startlingly irresistible.

“Part of me can’t believe they agreed,” Keith mumbles. “Because _I_ sort of agree with _them_. What right do I have to barge in on their business?”

Shiro lowers the mouthpiece, looks Keith straight in the eyes. “You gained that right when they decided they could use you as a pawn in their power games. You’re not overstepping any bounds, Keith.”

Keith’s hands twist together in his lap, involuntarily. “I hope not.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Shiro smoking, Keith lost in thought.

He hasn’t found an opportunity to tell Shiro about Lance. It feels unnatural that Shiro doesn’t know about such an important development in Keith's life.

_No time like the present, I guess._

“Also, Shiro?” Shiro perks up, eyes opening from where they’d been blissfully closed. Keith clears his throat, his mind blank suddenly, scrambling for words. “I just, um … you were right.”

“Usually am,” Shiro says pleasantly, ignoring Keith’s pointed _shut up_ glare. To his credit, he looks only mildly confused. “About what, this time?”

“About …” Embarrassment smolders in Keith’s cheeks. His skin tingles with the nervousness of confessing. “The way I felt about you. Back then.”

A perplexed shadow crosses Shiro’s face. “Oh?”

“Yeah. The way it was … I don’t know. Immature. Infatuation.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

Keith’s flush creeps down his neck, hot and prickly. “Well. Something happened to make me realize it.” Thick eyebrows rise at that. Keith forces himself to push ahead. “I’m dating Lance Álvarez. It’s … it’s serious.”

The sudden amusement in Shiro’s expression has Keith stiffening with mortification. “ _Oh._ So when you’ve been _busy_ lately …”

His teeth have gritted themselves, automatically. “ _Yes_ , okay? I was … seeing him.”

“And?”

“And you were _right_. I did love you, Shiro. I – I _do_. But not …”

“Not like this.”

“No,” Keith admits. “Not like this.”

There’s a fondness around Shiro’s eyes that makes Keith's tense muscles soften with relief. “Does he make you happy?”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, on reflex. “I mean, a guy who punched me in high school? I never would have thought. But yeah, he does.”

“Good. Then I’m happy for you, too.” Shiro smiles, that sweet smile that has always made Keith’s chest squeeze.

“Mm. Thank you.” A familiar rush of gratitude overwhelms Keith – he could never have imagined that someone like him would ever have someone like Shiro in his life.

But Shiro is no longer the only star in Keith’s sky. At seventeen, Keith would have decked someone for even suggesting he needed anyone else, but now … there’s Lance, too.

Someone else he cares for. Someone else he might lose.

A kind of nausea mixes in with the hookah smoke, creeping up on Keith like a poison miasma.

He has to let Lance know he’s leaving.

 

* * *

 

Hunk and Lance. Hunk’s apartment. Bad reality TV and snacks.

The combination is classic. Timeless. Except today, there is a new element involved.

Lance has something to say.

Hunk walks over to the couch where Lance is already sprawled, presenting him with a plate of little crackers, artfully arranged like at a high-end restaurant.

“So the green topping is pesto with Balmeran rock salt, this one over here is smoked salmon with lesser-mermaid roe, and this is a sweet potato cream with lemon-sage brown butter. The one on the top left is just that sprayable cheese. Disgusting, yet somehow _so_ delicious.”

Lance snorts with laughter, taking the plate out of Hunk’s hands. “Thanks, bro. Um, before I dig in … I have something to tell you, and I need you not to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Oh no. You’re making your serious face. What’s going on? No one’s _pregnant_ , are they?”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Give me some _credit_ , dude.”

Hunk exhales with a relief so genuine Lance is a bit offended. “Okay. Hit me with it.”

“Don’t laugh,” Lance warns, skin crawling with nerves.

“I won’t,” says Hunk, popping one of his own crackers in his mouth. “Pinky promise.”

“So, you remember how I said before that I wasn’t into Keith?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, um.” He’s blushing so hard. This is ridiculous. “That’s kinda … outdated information. ’Cuz, well, I’m sort of into Keith.”

Hunk nearly chokes on his cracker.

“And he’s sort of into me!” Lance goes on, yelling now for some reason.

“He’s your boyfriend?” Hunk yells back, having somehow absorbed the remainder of his snack.

“He’s my _boyfriend_!”

Then Hunk is screaming, and Lance is screaming back, until it devolves into him laughing helplessly with giddy fireworks going off inside his chest.

“I’m _so_ happy for you, dude,” Hunk says, and before Lance can even inhale to reply, his ribs are being crushed in one of Hunk’s trademark hugs.

“Yeah,” Lance wheezes, against the softness of Hunk’s chest. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Nothing lasts, does it?

Later that night, Keith calls Lance. Tells him about the mission.

_I don’t know how long I’ll be gone._

Somehow Lance is still standing, despite the floor beneath him turning into an ocean of rollicking waves.

Part of him wants to be angry. _What about me, Keith? Do we mean so little to you?_ But the conviction in Keith is so palpable, even over hololink, that those selfish emotions tighten up and wither inside Lance. There's such real concern in the crease of Keith's brow and the slight quiver of his voice, such selfless determination in his squared shoulders, that none of Lance’s objections ever reach his lips.

 _Guess I’ll be stuck to you until you go, then,_ he says instead, with a cocky smile that is not as brave as it looks.

 _I hoped you’d say that,_ says Keith.

So sincerely it hurts.

 

* * *

 

_I’ll be leaving soon. But I want to see you first._

Keith doesn’t tell Lance outright that he wants to say good-bye, and honestly, Lance is glad. He doesn’t want a good-bye. The implications are too final.

So instead, Keith just comes over to Lance’s. Again.

They’ve been seeing as much of each other as they possibly can, nearly every single day. Both here on Earth, and at the Castle, and once even on the Kogane station. _That_ was a terrifying thrill.

It’s been so long since sex was a necessary excuse. While it’s unlikely for either of them to ever _complain_ if things go there, all pretense has been tossed out the airlock.

_He’s here because I want to be with him. Because he wants to be with me._

Remembering that still sends a rush of joy bubbling through Lance’s entire body. Is this feeling something people get used to?

It’s hard for him to believe. He doesn’t know if he’ll have the opportunity to be with Keith for long enough _to_ get used to it.

He can’t think about that for too long, or it’ll consume him. Instead, he focuses on how Keith Kogane poking through Lance’s fridge or lazily zapping on Lance’s TV has become almost normal.

He’s doing the latter now. Lance shuffles over, curling up next to Keith and dropping his head onto his shoulder.

“Did you bring pajamas?”

“Nah.”

“What, pajamas aren’t a thing on Planet Kogane? You sleep in your birthday suit? ‘Fuck sheep, I count my own abs.’”

“Yeah, pretty much.” There’s a smile in Keith’s voice.

Lance makes a pleased noise at the back of his throat. “I _do_ love the birthday suit.” He kisses Keith’s temple. “Do you wanna borrow a t-shirt, though?”

“Sure.”

A thrill of something like triumph goes through Lance, at that. Keith in his apartment, in his bed, in his clothes, is an incredibly powerful combination, deadlier than the lightning of the gods. Lance will never stop voluntarily throwing himself in its path.

“All right, babe. Be right back.”

He pushes himself off the couch and goes to raid his walk-in closet. Amazing – they might be standing at the edge of a cataclysm, yet the banter between them is so _normal_.

He’s down to a choice between two tees – either Voltron or Beach Festa Xtreme – when the AI in his room chimes to announce itself.

“Sir,” it says, in that smooth, artificial voice, “you have an incoming call.”

Pidge’s foul-mouthed programming has been undone. Still, he finds himself half-expecting the AI to have internalized its sassy personality and start insulting him again. He’d rather die than tell Pidge he misses it, though.

“Who is it?” Lance asks.

“Lotor,” the apartment says, turning Lance’s blood to ice in the same instant as Keith appears in the doorway, holding Lance’s buzzing phone in one hand.

“Do you wanna take this?” he asks, face grim.

“Fuck,” Lance breathes, tossing the tees onto his bed. He takes the phone from Keith. “Guess I should.”

Keith takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. Lance’s guts swoop like they’re in zero-G.

Well, no point in stalling. He swipes to the side.

“Hello?”

“Lance?” says Lotor’s honey voice, and _god damn it_. _Shit. Fuck._

Spending months processing his own bitterness, convincing himself he’s in the right, has twisted Lotor in Lance’s mind. It reduced him to a caricature, something lesser than he is, when in reality, he never stopped being larger than life. That beautiful voice, the cultured accent that makes Lance’s name sound like a love spell … He wasn’t prepared for what it would open up in him, the tender healing scab scratched clean off the wound.

“Lotor? Are you … what’s going on?”

Automatically, Lance’s gaze seeks out Keith’s. Their eyes meet, and Keith uncrosses his arms, from where they were clenched so tightly across his chest. Protecting his heart.

“Do you need some privacy?” Keith whispers, and Lance nods, gratefully. Keith gets up, disappearing back into the living room. Lance follows him with his eyes, wishing he’d come back, so he could collapse against him.

Or Hunk. He wishes Hunk were here, to hold Lance in his warm, comforting arms.

_I don’t want to deal with this alone._

“Lance? I miss you.”

“Lotor, where are you?”

“I miss being with you. I miss the way you laugh.”

Not at home, then. Lotor isn’t sober. He wouldn’t have called if he was. The realization helps harden Lance’s resolve.

“Don’t do this.”

“Do you miss me too?”

“Stop it. You’re high as fuck.” Someone so poised, so intelligent, behaving like a child clinging to his mother’s leg. It squeezes Lance’s heart, draining it until all that’s left is pity that makes him want to scream.

He knows what Lotor would do with pity. Slice it in half with one glare from those cold golden eyes.

 _So pick yourself up,_ Lance wants to yell, _stop sinking yourself to the point where I feel sorry for you._

“We were so _good_ together, Lance. Remember that time, on the moon?”

Lance’s belly tightens, and he hates the way it’s not all dread, hates that the excitement and longing are still there, deep down. “Lotor, I broke things off, and you walked out. You can’t call me up now to guilt trip me.”

“Listen – I was too rash. I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”

 _Damn it._ Lance keeps putting his foot down, and Lotor keeps ignoring him. He bites down on annoyance. “Even if you hadn’t, it wouldn’t have changed my mind.”

“Lance, I wanted to …” A pause, a near-silence, except for Lotor’s quickened breathing. Slowly, it evens out, as if he’s calming himself. “I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have done that, and I'm _sorry_.”

 _Too late._ A sour beast hunches inside of Lance, selfish and defensive and entirely convinced it’s in the right. He ignores the voice of reason, the one reminding him of his own part in this.

_You were using him too, Lance. Encouraging him. That wasn’t fair either._

“I was just – I was so—” And as the words fall from Lotor’s lips, it seems like they’re surprising even to him. “I was upset. I wasn’t acting rational.”

_And you were a lot more into me than I was into you._

It seems obvious, now. Did Lotor realize it?

“Yeah, well. We both made mistakes.”

“Can I see you again? I’ll make it up to you …” In his voice, the vestiges of that seductive purr.

“I told you, Lotor. There’s someone else.”

“Lance, I _miss_ you.”

The words come out thick. Is he crying? _Fuck._

“You miss me when you’re high. You miss me when you put yourself in a shit situation and you want somebody else to lift you out of it.” Saying the words – speaking aloud what he’s always known, and what he once secretly relished – is squeezing his lungs, pressing every last breath out of him. “Trust me, I get it. I’ve been there. And it’s fucking poison, for both of us.”

Lotor goes quiet on the other end. Stillness – not even his breathing.

“You shouldn’t have called me,” Lance says, into the phone. His voice sounds small and vulnerable, even to him. “I told you – I can’t do this anymore.”

Lance’s eyes begin to sting. _No no no,_ he chants to himself, _this is ridiculous_ – but some deep-seated part of him seems to disagree.

And then – click.

No good bye. No nothing.

A mocking monotone beeps into his ear.

Lance hates himself for it, but he starts to cry.

At first, it’s just his lower lip, trembling uncontrollably. Then the tears overflow, hulking sobs grip his body, and he stands there, helpless, useless, a person who hurts people and is hurt in return, a chasm opening inside of him—

Then he registers Keith, appearing in the doorway again. “Lance, are you oka—oh, shit.”

Keith’s by the door one second, there next to Lance the next. Even through the haze of tears and the gross snot dripping down his face, Lance picks up on the awkwardness of his movements. _Can’t blame him. This would be weird for anyone._

Keith’s hand, strong and warm, squeezes Lance’s upper arm, and pulls him into a hug.

A dam inside Lance bursts.

He sobs into Keith’s shoulder, his body shaking, an emptiness in his chest like it’s caving in on itself.

Without speaking, Keith walks them over to Lance’s bed, one slow step at a time. He sits down, gently pulls Lance with him.

Keith holds Lance until the worst subsides – when he finally resurfaces from the dark blue whirlpool inside himself, and notices how soaked the shoulder of Keith’s shirt is, and how his nose won’t stop pouring no matter how hard he sniffs.

“I’ll go get toilet paper,” Keith murmurs.

“There’s tissues on the night table,” Lance manages.

“Oh.” Keith gives Lance a sly, pointed look. “I _wonder_ why.”

That makes Lance hiccup a laugh.

He’s pathetic. But he’s glad Keith’s here.

Keith disentangles himself from Lance for long enough to pull a couple of tissues from the box. He rests one hand on Lance’s knee as Lance blows his nose and mops up the mess he calls his face.

“I’m sorry. This is so uncool,” Lance sniffles, more gross mucus settling in his throat, as if to confirm it.

“It’s okay,” Keith says, with a tiny smile. “You’ve always been uncool.”

He’s cracking jokes to make Lance feel better. Oh god. This crush is reaching epic proportions.

“Um …” Keith fidgets, fingers tightening around Lance’s knee. “You wanna lie down?”

“Yeah.”

They change things up, going horizontal. Keith drapes one arm over Lance’s waist, the fingers of his other hand threading through Lance’s hair, repetitive and calming.

Lance loses track of how long they lie that way, just snuggling, Lance listening to the soothing rhythm of Keith’s heartbeat.

“Hey,” Lance mumbles against Keith’s collarbone, after a long while. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“It’s fine.”

 _He says it’s fine._ So why can’t Lance shut up?

“The way things ended, before … it was kind of ugly. I thought I was over it, but I guess it got to me or something? I was stupid for thinking he would just go away, but, you know, that’s me.” A laugh, hollow even to him, trickles out of him like the last splash of water from a dried-up spring.

“You have feelings for him,” Keith says, black on white. Lance’s stomach drops – a sickening plunge, as if he’d driven Keith’s Paladin off a cliff.

Because it’s true. What he feels isn’t love, but it’s not nothing.

“It’s not … the way I feel about you,” he says, panic clenching hold of his heart. If Keith’s eyes ever closed off the same way Lotor’s had, because of something Lance said – it would be too much. _Please, no. I couldn’t bear it._

“No, I know.” Keith says it with such certainty that Lance wants to kiss him. Keith exhales through his nose, curls his fingers gently in Lance’s hair. “And somehow … hmm. I should be jealous. But … seeing that you still care? How … _good_ you are? It’s just making me like you _more_.”

The confusion in his expression – combined with his everything, his pretty lips and his warm body and his wonderful presence here in Lance’s home – hits Lance’s heart like a bullet.

“I don’t deserve you,” he blurts.

Keith frowns, a deep wrinkle forming between his dark eyebrows. “Don’t say that.”

Lance closes his eyes. What’s wrong with him today? Keith’s imminent departure and Lotor’s sudden return, and the ice-cold future threat of losing one or both of them – all of it must be tearing at his seams. “I’m sorry. I’m still so goddamn insecure.”

“Insecure? Why?” Keith sounds like he genuinely doesn’t understand, and Lance’s heart squeezes with affection. _You bought my bigshot act? Really?_ It’s one of the many things about Keith he adores: that guilelessness, at the center of his savvy capability.

“I guess I just … I don’t know what you even like about me. I’m a slut and a fake. Sometimes I’m even proud of it.” He laughs dryly, but when Keith’s frown doesn’t go away, it dies in his throat. He swallows. “Sorry. This must seem pathetic. I promise I’m not like this all the time. Or even most of the time.”

“You’re fun,” Keith says, deep violet eyes fixed on Lance’s. “You make me smile. When I’m with you – even when you piss me off, for a while, I forget about the crazy garbage fire that’s my life.”

For a second, the pettiest part of Lance gets defensive – _what, that’s all?_ He’s heard Keith talk about Shiro, like he’s the stars and the sky, like they’re bound to one another by fate. It makes him so jealous he could choke, even though he knows it shouldn’t.

 _Why can’t_ I _be that?_

But Keith’s smiling at him, softly, no tension in his powerful shoulders, his thumb stroking the curve of Lance’s jaw.

It’s Lance’s millionth reminder of how different they are.

With the life Keith’s had, maybe a break from all of it means more than he’s able to express.

_And I’m the one who gives him that._

Lance swallows, a fresh tenderness softening his chest. “Thanks. Really.”

Keith’s smile turns cheeky. “You want me to keep saying nice things about you?”

A hot blush burns through Lance. “I mean. I’m not gonna say _no_.”

“You’re … How do I say this? You captivate people.”

 _Jeez._ Lance isn’t going to walk out of this unscathed, is he?

“That’s just because they know who I am,” Lance says, then regrets it immediately. He resents his own pessimism, but still he aches with the need to open up, let every tragic drop of self-pity ooze out of him. “People wanna get in good with me, because I’m rich, because I’m a good time.”

“No, that’s not it.” The set of Keith’s eyebrows might have looked angry to someone who didn’t know better, but Lance does, sees it for the contemplation it is. “It’s _you_ , Lance. There’s something about you that … makes it hard to look away.”

Lance’s first, flustered instinct is to tell him to shut up, that cheesiness doesn’t suit him. But Keith’s words are stroking something inside him that needs it badly, so all that comes out is, “Like what?”

“Like … when you play piano.” Keith glances down for a split-second, almost demure. His bashfulness is contagious. Is it possible to blush all the way to the ankles? “I think that’s what first got me interested in you. I … I can’t explain it. It’s kinda like the world stops for a while. Is this even making sense?”

“Yeah, it … uh-huh. Yes.”

Lance isn’t going to fucking cry again. He’s got enough self-control to promise himself that much. Instead, he stretches up, brushes his lips over Keith’s. Keith smiles into the kiss, and returns it, and Lance is so, so gone.

He reminds himself that this is the honeymoon phase, that it isn’t going to last. What if he wakes up one day and everything is back to normal? What if that sour, envious hatred comes bubbling up in him again?

What if Keith doesn’t come home, and none of it will matter?

Lance wants to kiss him again, drown out his own thoughts, but Keith has pulled back, his expression strangely shy.

“Um … what about me?”

The words are so quiet that at first Lance isn’t sure he heard him right.

“Huh?”

“What is it you like … about me?”

 _Keith cares what I think about him._ Despite how far they’ve come, that realization still makes something inside Lance jump in surprise. When you spend so long envying someone – feeling like you’re in their shadow – it becomes so easy to forget that they might be standing in shadows of their own.

Lance shifts his weight, inches closer.

How does he say this? How does he put every conflicting feeling he’s ever had toward Keith into words?

“Listen. I’ve always had a lot of expectations. And … constructed who I am.” He chews at his lip, stupidly nervous. “It’s like every thought I have has to make its way through a long maze of bullshit before I can see it for what it is. But you’re … real. And I hated that at first, because being with you forces me to see who I am, and not just who I think I should be.”

He can’t read the expression in Keith’s violet eyes. Has to believe Keith when he says he cares, and not the stubborn voice in his own head that tells him no one ever truly could.

“Who am I kidding?” Now that he’s started, he might as well follow through. “I admire you. Everything about you. You’re so skilled. You’re so strong. You’ve been through so much. You’re going through shit right now, and you’re still so determined and brave. It’s amazing. _You’re_ amazing.”

His heart is beating faster. This is like confessing all over again.

“I … that’s not true,” Keith mumbles, looking down. “I spend a lot of time fighting my own emotions. Pushing them down. You overthink things, yeah. But you’re much more honest about your feelings than I am. I … I’ve always had so many walls up …”

Lance leans in, rubs their noses together. “Guess we’ve got a lot to learn from each other.”

Keith sighs. “Mm. Guess so.”

It’s definitely a Moment, with a capital M. Lance snakes his arm around Keith’s waist. He doesn’t deal well with Moments, his mouth practically itching with the need to make a quip.

“So, like, the short version is that you’re pretty okay and the only person I wanna make out with.”

“That’s a lie,” Keith says, but he’s grinning. “You’d make out with _anyone_.”

Lance knees him, but Keith’s prepared, grabs him in a noogie of revenge. _I deserve that,_ Lance thinks, but retaliates anyway, and it quickly devolves into an impromptu wrestling match.

It’s good and sweet and fun, and they never once stop touching.

Never once think about when they’ll have to.

 

* * *

 

The next morning. The day Keith leaves.

Lance hadn’t mentioned it yesterday, and neither had Keith, selfishly relishing the chance to pretend he is just a boy who likes another boy. That he could have something normal, that he isn’t about to go off to train for a mission crucial to intergalactic peace.

Now, over toast and orange juice, they acknowledge it for the first time.

“How long are you going to be away?” Lance asks, without looking at Keith.

“I have no idea. I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you anything, either.” He picks at his own nails, wishes this table were wooden, so that he’d have a pattern to trace with his eyes. “They said no comms. No outside contact.”

Lance nods slowly, sips from his large mug of coffee. “Won’t take it personally, babes.”

Silence leaks into the space between them. Guilt weighs heavy on his shoulders. Stays there as he gets dressed, as he looks around this apartment he’s just gotten to know for what might be the last time.

They take a taxi to the shuttle bay, holding hands in the back seat. Lance only lets go to pay the driver, taking Keith’s hand again the moment they get out.

Once they’ve approached the airfield, Lance turns around to face Keith, and clasps his other hand. Skin on skin and pulse on pulse.

“Hey,” Lance says.

“Hey,” Keith replies.

Lance’s grip tightens, enough to pull Keith in. Their space becomes a shared one, and they lean in until their foreheads gently bump together.

Keith snapshots this moment from every angle, preserving it in his mind. Palms and foreheads touching, Lance’s breathing so close it might have been his own.

“I’ll miss you,” Lance murmurs, soft and genuine, with that sweet vulnerability that belongs entirely to the real Lance. The Lance Keith loves.

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Don’t suck out there, okay?”

“I don’t suck,” Keith grins, and Lance chuckles.

They pull back and look at one another, still touching.

“Good luck,” Lance says, his blue eyes determined. “Really.”

“You too.” Pause. “Lance?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Bold words, but he thinks they both need to hear them.

“Yeah,” Lance says, and smiles.

Letting go of him is hard. Walking away is even harder, but Keith does it, one step at a time. Across the grey expanse of the airfield, toward the ship that will take him back to the Kogane station for the last time, before a Marmora base becomes the closest thing he’ll have to home.

“Hey, babe?” Lance calls.

All the breath goes out of Keith, his steeled heart soft again as he turns around.

Lance gives him a mock salute, and one of those brilliant, starry grins. “Make me proud!”

Keith salutes him back, drinking in every inch of him. Doesn’t quite dare hope he’ll see him again.

Finally, he climbs inside the shuttle, his chest a whirlwind of affection and endless, encroaching dread.

 

* * *

 

How do you get two top-tier corporate executives alone? You’d think it would be easier when they’re your parents, but Lance is learning that is not always the case.

He finds himself hanging around HQ more often, haunting the glossy, avant-garde halls and hoping for a gap in their busy schedules.

It serves to remind him of his own ample amounts of free time, and of the gaping Keith-shaped hole that’s opened up in his life. Try as he might, he hasn’t found anything that can fill it.

He’s been thinking long and hard about what to do about that.

_What am I doing with my life?_

Having fun, he would have told himself, before. He’s not so sure now.

He has an idea, though. Spent the past week and a half hatching a plan to hit two birds with one stone.

He gets up extra early one morning, and that seems to do the trick. By some miracle, he catches his parents in the execs’ lounge, high above the city. Its grid sprawls out beneath them, through seamless panorama windows.

“Morning, Lance,” says José, fetching himself coffee from the gleaming espresso machine. “Good to see you here.”

“Hi, Dad.”

Lance’s mother Lola is sitting in one of the low, sleek couches, finishing a bowl of fruit salad. “Hi, sweetie. How are you? Come on, sit down.”

He walks up to her, his pointy shoes sinking into plush carpet, and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t ruffle his hair – enough fourteen-year-old cries of _“but Mom, it’s styled!”_ put a stop to that years ago – but gives the back of his neck an affectionate squeeze.

“Morning, Ma.”

“Have some grapes,” she urges, gesturing to the overflowing cut-glass bowl on the table.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He didn’t come to eat grapes.

He waits until his father sits down, smiling through his beard. His wavy hair is combed back into its signature low ponytail.

Lance looks back and forth between his father and mother. Despite their formal attire, the softness in the fine lines around their mouths and eyes is all parental.

_Spoiled youngest son._

He’s glad his brother Luis isn’t here – the model child. Lance knows Luis wants to inherit, that he’s craved that responsibility since he was very young. Still, he’s always sniped at Lance’s frivolity, bitter at how much – or how _little_ – Lance has gotten away with doing.

 _So Lance just gets to leave? Do whatever he wants, as usual?_ He can practically hear his brother’s voice, resentment disguised as rational argument. Sometimes he thinks it’s buried so deep Luis even convinces himself that’s what it is.

“We don’t see you around here often,” says José, kindly. Why so kindly? Guilt sprouts in Lance’s stomach, for the anger he’s felt toward these people – despite everything, they’ve done nothing but love him. It intertwines with nervousness, at the anger _they_ might feel toward _him_.

Lance swallows. He hates sweating in a suit. Hates feeling so _organic_ – his edges don’t line up with this costume, designed to help humans pretend they aren’t animals.

“Yeah, um, actually … there’s something I want to talk to you guys about.”

A wrinkle forms in his mother’s brow. “Okay. Go ahead, honey.”

He takes a deep breath.

“So, uh, I guess I’ll start from the beginning. Several months back, I ran into Keith Kogane.”

His mother’s shoulders stiffen up. His father’s eyebrows push together.

So, yeah. The boyfriend thing will have to wait.

“He was extorting someone.” Before his parents can scoff, he adds, “Someone I recognized from HQ.” He clears his throat. “Well, obviously, I had to ask what that was about. Long story short, he was skimming off of operations. Operations that aren’t in the official books.”

They stare at him, faces neutrally blank. Businesspeople are good at never letting on confusion. Or guilt.

“Guys. I know about the Galra deal.”

“Of course you do. Everyone knows the Galra Kingdom is starting to open up.”

“Yeah, Mom, but I mean the _other_ deal. The one under the table. The one where you’ve been facilitating secret connections into Galra space, helping them get their hands on external supplies. So that they’ll owe us, once they do open up.”

Lola’s hand stills in the air, then slowly sinks into her lap. Neither of his parents say anything.

“If you won’t say it, I will. Our ships are helping them smuggle war supplies.”

José clears his throat. “Lance.”

“You think those things are ending up in Zarkon’s memorabilia collection? The Galra have some kind of agenda, and it smells sinister to anyone who bothers to check. And we’re making it all possible – for what? A _deal_?”

“Lance, I understand what you think you’re seeing,” says his mother. “But it’s all for defense. Once Galra space opens, they’ll be vulnerable. The supplies are to help fortify their military, so that they can protect their resources.”

Lance bites down on an incredulous scoff. Is this willful naivety? Is she lying to his face?

Maybe. But, he reminds himself, his mother doesn’t know what he knows. Her lover wasn’t stalked and recruited by the Galra resistance; she wasn’t informed of Zarkon’s plans. He takes a deep breath, simmers back down.

“You have to look at it from the inside,” Lola goes on, voice soft and diplomatic. “These connections are _very_ important. If we’re in charge of the flow of products to and from Galra space, we can prevent it from reaching places it would be better off not going. We will have a _say_.”

Lance frowns. “Why is controlling this flow such a big deal, anyway?”

José’s face assumes its _maybe you’d know if you’d attended more meetings_ expression. “What your mother is getting at is, Galra space contains caches of an incredible energy resource. They’re calling it quintessence.”

 _Quintessence._ Memories of fuchsia lighting and a first kiss flash through Lance’s mind. As if worrying about Keith wasn’t enough – he has to be constantly reminded of Lotor now, too? Someone else he might lose forever?

“It’s crucial that it releases onto the market,” José continues, as Lance forces the images back into oblivion. “Imagine Junko Kogane’s methods, if she had gotten through to them first. She’d find a way to push up prices – to set up direct siphons to her black-market mafia friends, keep it away from people entirely. People who _need_ it. It would be injustice, and chaos.”

And when the Galra conquer the known universe, what would it be then? Lance can almost see it: the vague shape of a plot, outlined by the threads of intrigue. Zarkon tempts with sweet, sweet energy, and the universe looks away from colonization of distant regions of space.

_And then it’ll be our turn._

José catches the look on Lance’s face, and the set of his jaw hardens. “Lance, don’t make us look like the bad guys here. This isn’t black and white. It’s business.”

“No, I know that.” What he also knows is that the businessperson’s model of grey areas and questionable compromises isn’t for him. “I guess I’m just an idealist. And that’s not something I’m interested in getting over.”

“Where are you going with this, honey?” Lola interrupts.

_Here it comes._

“Listen. I know that me disagreeing isn’t going to shut down this deal. But the skimming? That’s different. Not all of the supplies are even getting to the Galra, and who knows where _they’re_ ending up?”

He lets the implication dangle in the air. Black market. Gangsters. Madame Kogane’s friends. His parents watch him with matching frowns.

“If this skimming is happening in one spot, there’s bound to be more. This whole operation won’t go dead just because one guy got caught, and I’m sure other people in other parts of space have had the same idea.” Shit. His armpits are _pouring_. Lance is relieved he opted for a black suit today. “And I want to do something about it. We don’t have enough presence at our own outposts. We send the ships, but then what? How deep does the chain go? Space is huge, and easy to hide things in. I want to make sure our people are _clean_ , and deal with anyone who isn’t.”

“How, exactly?” his father asks.

“Traveling out there. Finding the cracks and patching them. Cutting puppet strings.” He scratches at the back of his head. “Kind of a space cops thing? Just, um, totally serious, of course.”

José and Lola exchange a glance, then look back at him. Fondness. It’s there. That’s a good sign.

It’s his mother who speaks up next. “What would you need from us?”

“Permission to represent the company. A muscle team for backup, in case things go south.” He shrugs. “I can handle the rest.”

His dad looks skeptical, but his mom’s expression is somehow weighted with approval. That gives him the courage to look her in the eyes, square his shoulders.

“Will you let me do it? Will you give me official sanction to make this happen?”

_Will you let me go places and see things the way I've always dreamed? Will you let me do my damnedest not to think about my boyfriend risking his life, and my ex-something getting caught in the crossfire?_

“I don’t know, Lance,” his dad says. “You don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing.”

“Then let me _get_ experience. Trust me with _one_ mission. If it goes to hell, pardon my French, then I’ll come right back.” He’s clenched his fist, unthinking, and now he brings it up in front of his heart. “But I _really_ want to do this. I want to do something that _matters_.”

“This seems very sudden,” says José, finally.

“Actually, it’s not. I’ve been thinking about doing something like this for a long time.”

_I wanted to be a pilot. I wanted to go to the Garrison, but that was out of the question. So I stayed on the ground._

_Now it’s my turn to fly._

“We might have to talk about this,” his father ventures, uncertainly.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Figure out what kind of people you might need … what kind of ship.”

And Lance knows he’s won.

“Don’t worry about the ship. I think I’ve got that covered.”

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” says Hunk.

“Huuuuuuunk. Pleeeeeease?”

“I told you,” Hunk repeats, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning further back into Lance’s couch, “like I’ve told you a million damn times already – it’s a tech project. Listen. We technically don’t even know if she’s space-worthy.”

Lance fixes his friend with a long, cool look. “Hmm. You’re telling me you and Pidge would _really_ build something that doesn’t work? How sad. The cutting-edge Kaltenecker, wonder of the skies, turns out to be about as useful as a cow grazing in the pasture …”

Hunk’s lower lip juts out into a pout. “Okay, look, man. I admit it’s unlikely. But even so – I think this is a bad idea.”

“Come on, Hunk. You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never wanted to try that rig out.”

“ _That rig_ has mods that aren’t legal in most of civilized space! You’d need permits and—”

“We’ll be in the far regions of _deep_ space, dude!” Hunk groans at that, covering his face with his big hands. “Besides, we’re filthy rich for a reason. Money is all about not playing by the rules.”

Hunk drags his hands down his face far enough to pull at the skin underneath his eyes. “Excuse me, Lance,” he mumbles from behind his palms, “I have a question.”

“Permission granted.”

“Who the hell is this ‘we’?”

Lance gives Hunk a Look, to which Hunk responds with a pointed finger and a very rapid “No no no no no. Oh, bro, no, do not do this, do not say the thing I think you’re about to say—”

“You, me, and Pidge. Duh.”

“Full offense, Lance – _what the fuck?_ ”

Lance puts up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Okay, dude, look. What would you need to do to feel like it was worth driving a semi-legal, fully-awesome spaceship to the far reaches of the known universe?”

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting? Those regions are _wild_. They can get _dangerous_. And us? We’re a vidder, a party boy, and a nerd with a desk job.”

“Don’t be so blind, Hunk. We’re an engineer, a sharpshooter, and a badass hacker. Also, we’d have a trained team with us. I’d say we stand a pretty decent chance.”

“Nuh-uh! No _shooting_!”

Hunk’s getting in one of his moods. That means it’s time to pull out the sympathy card.

See, Lance is good at piano, but he’s an absolute virtuoso at playing Hunk.

“Listen, buddy. My boyfriend’s gone away, and I’m crazy worried about him. I need something to keep me occupied, but just as importantly, I need my _friends_.”

Hunk’s brown eyes go all goopy, bless his beautiful heart. “Aw, Lance … hey, bro. I know that sucks. But there are lots of ways to deal with it. Can’t we distract you by playing Monopoly or something? Or, like, 100% runs of Voltron Lion Force, _the_ hardest video game known to humankind? That’ll keep you busy for ages—”

“I need the bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from being on the road, palio.”

Hunk makes a pathetic noise, and Lance calmly watches his resolve begin to crumble.

“All righty. Let’s get Pidge on holo.”

“Let’s not,” Hunk mutters, but this is Lance’s apartment, and he is the one in charge.

So, they get Pidge on holo.

“Hey guys. What’s up?” says the mini-version of them that materializes in Lance’s living room.

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?” Lance asks Hunk.

Hunk waves his hand like a flag of surrender.

Lance explains the situation to Pidge from the top down. He brings up missing Keith, and how he’d love to fly Kaltenecker with them (“I got you guys the ship in the first place, and you two made her what she is – we’re basically a _family_ , Pidge”). Finally, he pushes hard on how valuable Pidge’s skills are, how they were the one who dug up this dark operation in the first place, and now they can help stop it. The three of them, an elite team fighting corporate corruption.

Pidge pushes their glasses up their nose in that insufferable know-it-all gesture. “You know, dude, that doesn’t have quite the same effect if we _are_ corporate.”

“Details, Pidge. You’re a smart kid. Sometimes it’s better to bend the rules than completely smash them.”

They rub their chin. “Hmm. Fair enough. What about my job?”

“I’ll pull some strings. Get you back your internship, or a full-time position. You won’t come back to nothing. I’ll swear it upon your NES.”

“A solemn oath.” Pidge nods thoughtfully. “I always wanted to do a gap year. I was thinking Mars or something, but this sounds a _lot_ cooler. I’m down.”

Whooping, Lance mimes a fistbump with them, and Hunk lets out a long-suffering noise that’s part sigh, part wail, part sheer exasperation.

“Why are you both like this? Why am I so _weak_?”

“You’re not, buddy. You’re stubborn as hell when you want to be. You just don’t want to admit this idea is the sweetest thing since those Altean éclairs.”

“Dude, _nothing_ is ever going to beat those éclairs.”

“You never know. It might.”

“Ugh!”

“So are we doing this?” says Pidge, hazel eyes bright behind round glasses.

“I don’t know, are we?” Hunk nearly shrieks.

Lance crosses his arms over his chest, resting the smug beam of his gaze on each of them in turn.

“So, when are we leaving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i'm still so skullfucked post season 5 that i'm just gonna link my tumblrs:
> 
>  
> 
> [voltron side](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com)   
>  [main](http://cloudstrifing.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> and the [post](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/post/157030937554/deepest-shade) you can reblog to spread the word to others.
> 
> lmk what you thought. i hope you'll stick around until the end <3


	13. Azure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the violence warning comes into play in this chapter. nothing horribly gruesome, but nevertheless, heads up. i hope u enjoy ;-;

“Mr. Álvarez. To what do I owe the honor?”

Zurol, the boss of deep-space trading outpost GL208, regards Lance over steepled fingers. Third eyelids flicker over emerald irises, quick as insects’ wings.

Maybe she’s hoping to unsettle him, but it takes more than a little alien anatomy to get under Lance’s skin.

“Was in the area. Thought I might as well stop by.” Lance grins, shrugs his shoulders under his navy suit jacket. “Make sure things out here are running smoothly.”

“Oh, for sure.” Her voice has a strange, fluttery quality, as if her throat and mouth weren’t made for shaping words. Her skin is translucent, amphibian, shifting subtly with color. Perhaps that’s how her species communicates. “ _So_ very smoothly.”

“Glad to hear it.” He fires off another winning smile. Her demeanor isn’t hostile, but there’s a guardedness about her. The heavy desk between them becomes a fortress wall. Golden light catches on the multicolored patterns on her stained-glass lamp. The cozy office is so different from the barebones warehouse appearance of the rest of the outpost buildings.

It’s tempting to search the office with his eyes, looking for some ostentatious sign of out-of-place wealth. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead.

Behind him crouches his trusty bot – a sort of dome on long, jointed legs, put together by Hunk and programmed by Pidge. (“His name is Sven, after everyone’s favorite Voltron support character,” Pidge said, in a tone brooking zero argument. Video game references are serious business.) Behind Zurol stands a stoic alien of a similar species, but its skin is blue rather than green.

In the corner, a music player cranks out a quirky tune – upbeat, but with an odd rhythm that Lance never seems quite able to keep. The player itself resembles a gramophone, but the mouthpiece seems to be fashioned from a single seashell, its smooth texture distinctly alien.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Álvarez? Something to drink, perhaps?” She angles her eyes at a carafe on a nearby table, filled with a liquid the color of an Earth sky reflected in the ocean.

“I’m peachy, thanks. Although …” He pauses, lifts his eyebrows. “I have heard there’s a lot of gang activity out here. Hope you’re taking care.”

Those reptilian eyes give nothing away. “Of course. Pardon me, sir, but this isn’t a problem those of us who actually operate in the area have noticed. Perhaps the accounts you heard have been exaggerated.”

“Maybe.” This time, Lance doesn’t let his smile reach his eyes. “But I don’t think the accounts of your drug-smuggling were.”

Her face remains a still mask, but the colors beneath her skin shift more rapidly, like clouds in a stormy sky. “Excuse me?”

“You know. The drugs and other things being trafficked through this outpost – on our ships.”

A beat of silence ripples through the room, as if daring either of them to move.

When she speaks, her voice is tight with fury. “What kind of unfounded accusations—”

“Unfounded? Don’t think so.” Lance squeezes his left hand into a fist, signaling to a chip embedded in his lapel pin. A holoscreen appears between them, scrolling through long swathes of correspondence. Her face freezes into a still mask. “Yeah, this is from the encrypted server. And to anybody asking, how I got my hands on it will be less interesting than what it says. Looks like the drugs are only the beginning. You’ve been busy out here.”

Green eyes narrow. At her side, the retainer’s face remains blank. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Álvarez?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think this could work out for both of us.” His tone is still genial, his hands clasped behind his back. Pseudo-legality is the thread that knits the fabric of deep space together, but most of the spots Lance has visited are willing to reconsider their more unpalatable activities, if only the price is right. Álvarez traffic can make or break an outpost, providing the spine for any barbs to sprout from. “Say the operation shuts down. Or say you provide any tidbits that would help track down your suppliers. Then as far as I’m concerned this outpost is squeaky clean. If not, then, well – this isn’t the kind of business that we run. Repercussions. They could happen.”

Her scaled, hairless head bobs in a slow nod, like a snake following the movements of its charmer. “It seems you’ve done some research on deep space.”

He smiles, feigning sheepishness, and lets his shoulders rise and drop in a shrug.

She smirks. “So, you may know these regions are very unpredictable. Sometimes, people disappear.”

The cold malice in her face means this conversation is already over.

He moves fast, reaching inside his coat to draw his pistols from hidden holsters. In a quick mirror-image of Lance’s movements, Zurol’s blue-skinned retainer dives for their own heat.

The weapons settle comfortably in his palms, familiar grips of cold metal leaking calm into his veins.

Lance fires. Pleasant jolt through his wrists, less pleasant _crack_ resounding in his ears. The retainer stumbles as his bullet pierces their leg.

Gunplay is a dance, and he knows every step.

Zurol’s bizarre eyes widen in anger. No one ever expects much of the young upstart with the carefree smile, and Lance has learned to view that as a strength.

Of course, a boss this embroiled with the underworld wouldn’t go unarmed. She draws a slender handgun from beneath the desk—

—shoots at his chest—

—and the bullet clatters uselessly off a spherical white barrier, segmented like honeycomb, projected by the bot at Lance’s back.

 _Thanks, buddy._ The thought is directed equally at Sven and Pidge.

Zurol’s expression twists with rage.

Time to go.

Lance’s mind has switched modes, settling into that special clarity of shooting, when the whole world blurs except for his target.

He aims for her arm. Squeezes off a bullet. She lets out an inhuman hiss as her handgun clatters to the floor, the limb dangling uselessly by her side, exit wound leaking yellowish blood.

Trusting in Sven’s protective particle barrier, Lance yanks the door to the office open. Behind him, the strange, off-key music continues to play, trickling down the corridor with him as he runs. Framed images and display cupboards melt into smears in his peripheral vision.

The robot lopes after Lance, its long legs easily keeping up with his stride. Bullets _ping_ off the glowing shield – she’s made it to the doorway, found another gun, emptying it in his direction. But the tech is solid, the barrier unflickering around him. He runs, adrenaline pumping, pushing his legs as fast as they will go.

Is it sick to be thrilled by this the way he is? Because he _is_ thrilled – endorphins and adrenaline wrapping around his brain and whirling like a hurricane, lifting his whole body in its wake.

He bursts out of the building and emerges under a velvet night sky, twinkling with pinprick stars, distant and entirely indifferent to the breath burning in Lance’s throat, the ache in his muscles. He races straight toward the waiting shuttle. The little grey ship is unassuming but swift, and as he approaches, the door slides open. Hunk’s familiar shape is waiting, arm outstretched.

Lance grabs Hunk’s strong hand, allows himself to be pulled inside. Legs bending and springing, Sven leaps in behind him.

He yanks the door shut, and the barrier around him dissipates. All at once, he notices the sweat drenching his armpits and the way his hair sticks to his forehead.

Hunk straps into the driver’s seat, staring wide-eyed at Lance’s disheveled condition. “Holy shit. You okay, man?”

“Yeah, but the mission isn’t. Got a little trigger-happy at the end, there.”

“ _Again?_ Dude, sometimes I swear you have a deathwish.”

Lance settles for grinning manically, and Hunk lets the subject drop. He plops himself into the passenger seat as Hunk floors the gas, and they shoot out into the atmosphere and beyond.

 

* * *

  

The shuttle docks back into Kaltenecker, drifting in orbit around the planet. They’ve lived out of this massive ship for so many months now that it seems ludicrous that Hunk ever referred to her as “just a tech project.”

Once back on board, Lance showers to rinse away any residual stress, and changes into comfortable loose clothes. He loops the brass goggles Keith gave him around his head, pushes them up far enough to keep his rapidly growing bangs out of his eyes. It’s become his near-constant fashion statement, once he’s out of his fancy suits, and a comforting reminder of what he’s had – what he has to believe he’ll have again.

He goes to rejoin Hunk and Pidge on the ship’s bridge. Hunk is collapsed in one of the beanbags he insisted on getting (“Listen, man, high tech means nothing without high comfort”). Pidge, as always, is hunched over the computer systems, their collection of vintage action figures forming a half-circle around their workstation, like attentive undergrads observing their professor.

“Hey, Lance,” says Pidge, looking up with a bright smile. “Everything work out?”

“More or less.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the boss was supremely uncooperative, but at least now we know this place is rotten.” He’s going to have to report back, make sure the company finds a way to reroute whatever shipments pass through GL208.

“You got shot at?”

“Maaaybe.”

“And?”

“Sven did amazing.”

Pidge clenches their fist, eyes closing in quiet triumph. “ _Hell_ , yeah.”

Lance grins and stretches his arms above his head, cracking his shoulders. “Any idea where we’re going next?”

Pidge pushes their glasses up their nose. Their data mining is what draws the trio a map – Pidge combs through the records for anything shady, and they follow up. As it turns out, with an intergalactic company the size of Álvarez Cargo, there’s plenty of spots that could be malignant.

“I’ve found an outpost on a neutral planet that’s got some irregular figures. Wanna go check it out?”

“Maybe we should. Anywhere we’ve been before?”

“Nah. Unexplored sector.” Pidge waggles their eyebrows.

“I want to see Shay,” Hunk mopes, from deep inside the beanbag. “Can’t we head back toward the Balmera? Pidge, are you _sure_ that slice of space is as clean as it looks?”

“Positive,” says Pidge, and Hunk heaves a sigh of lament.

“I know you miss her, buddy,” says Lance. “Hey … you think you need some time off?”

“Don’t we all?” Hunk gives Lance a pointed look. “We’ve been working non-stop for a while, dude.”

Lance shrugs. “I’m enjoying myself.”

“Work keeps your mind off things?” Hunk’s tone is heavy with implication.

Lance refuses to meet his friend’s eyes. The void inside him opens up again, threatening to suck him in. His days are a constant process of keeping himself busy, never allowing himself to look twice at the Keith-shaped hole in his life.

He’s heard nothing from Keith for months. Understanding the need for secrecy doesn’t make it hurt less. Every day he wakes up telling himself not to hope, and every day, he goes to bed disappointed. _How long can it take to overthrow_ one _power hungry monarch, huh?_

When they visited the Balmera and Hunk did meet Shay, seeing them embrace made jagged claws tear at Lance’s stomach, pulling him in different directions. He was happy for his friend, and so badly wanted to let happiness beget more happiness. At the same time, jealousy and loss twisted his insides, making it hard to smile, hard to do anything but resist the urge to curl up in bed and cry.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Lance,” says Hunk, the certainty in his voice more alien to Lance than all the planets they’ve visited combined. “And I know he misses you too.”

Lance slumps back into his seat. This sadness is part of his bones by now, a fog filling him, heavy and blue.

He knows he’s a hypocrite, fresh out of a gunfight he threw his own ass into, but he aches for some sign that can prove to him Keith isn’t being reckless, that he’s okay.

Lance sneaks a glance out the window, at the endless dark of space.

_Hey, asshole. If you’re out there – if you’re listening – you keep your damn self safe, you hear?_

 

* * *

 

_**i.** _

_“Isn’t this kind of weird? That I’m here, I mean. In your lair.”_

_Lance is babbling. Keith has learned it’s what he does when he gets nervous, so the need to snap at him never rises in the first place. Instead, he takes quiet pleasure in Lance’s flustered expression._

_“I’ve been to your place before,” Keith says, shrugging, then zones out as Lance starts up another harangue about_ yeah, I guess this station is the size of a small town, but you technically live with your mom, dude …

_He supposes it is kind of weird. Lance, and all his history with Keith, inside the heart of the Kogane station. It’s as if every Lance he’s ever known is condensed into this single boy, standing in the corridors he’s walked so many times, and every conflicting emotion he’s harbored toward him rushes through him all at once._

_But the Keith of the present, who cares very deeply about the Lance of the present, wins out._

_Lance gazes around himself with wide eyes, pointed black shoes sinking into the carpet. Its plush texture absorbs the sound, just like the high ceilings swallow Lance’s voice. The whole place encourages a kind of soft-spoken stoicism that Lance does not possess, and his shoulders creep up to his ears as he follows Keith deeper inside._

_It’s cute. He’s cute. Keith tries and fails to hide a smile._

 

**_ii._ **

_After a brief tour of Keith’s private wing, they have dinner, and after dinner, they hit the pool._

_Lance’s lean body sinks into the water, one slow step at a time. It laps up his torso, distorted and ghostly beneath the waterline, toned and beautiful above it._

_He pushes off from the side, arms cleaving the water in a crawl. Pleasing. Graceful. Fast. Poetic thoughts Keith will regret when Lance blows a raspberry on him later, but from a distance, he’s beautiful._

_Keith plays at swimming for a while, but even with his face plunged underwater and a muted roar in his ears, he only wants one thing. His body throbs, a tight node of heat forming in his stomach that refuses to dissolve._

_He tilts his center of gravity, righting himself, the soles of his bare feet finding the tiled bottom of the pool. He waits, admiring._

_Lance finishes his laps, comes up for air and rest. Smooths his wet hair back from his forehead._

_Wordlessly, Keith walks up to him from behind. He rests his forehead against Lance’s shoulder, chlorine scent tickling his nose. His hands land on Lance’s waist, at the base of his ribcage, and stroke down until they find his hips, the waistband of his trunks._

_Just as silently, Lance turns around to face him._

_Their bodies press together, the water yielding smoothly around them. Lance’s wet skin is slicker than normal, but just as warm. Keith loses his breath, pushes even closer._

_His hand finds Lance’s face, urges him nearer. Their breathing blends into one spirit, and Keith inches in, and in, until …_

_Lips meet, once, a press that tastes as blue as the water dripping from their faces, as red as the fire in Keith’s belly. They meet again, over and over – Lance’s tongue is in Keith’s mouth, Keith’s other hand inside Lance’s trunks, fingers sinking into the flesh of his firm ass._

_The nerves in Keith’s skin register the cold as droplets evaporate off of him, but the heat inside him is stronger, the heat that has him kissing Lance as though he’s still underwater and Lance’s lips are his only source of air._

_“Let’s do it, Keith,” Lance breathes, in his moment’s reprieve, which Keith spends kissing his cheekbone, his jaw, his tender neck. He chuckles, the wiggling of his eyebrows practically audible. “Right here.”_

_“Here? Isn’t that kind of …”_

_Lance’s long fingers grab hold of Keith’s bulge, and_ want _spikes through him hard, impaling any remaining objections._

_Guess he’s diving in._

 

**_iii._ **

_Lance’s legs wrapped around him in the pool. Lance’s skin slick against his. Lance’s cock hard through his swimming trunks. Keith feels it, distinctly, where they’re pressed close to one another. The edge of the pool bites in between his vertebrae, and he doesn’t even mind._

_Just need him. His heat. His mouth. His hands._

_Pulling back for a brief second, returning to sanity. “Wait a second. We can’t come in the_ pool _.”_

_“Can’t we?” Lance breathes, grinding harder against Keith. Water sloshes around their waists._

_Keith rolls his eyes, even as Lance’s impish grin has him desperately aroused. “Don’t you think that’s kinda gross?”_

_“I’m pretty gross mysel—hey!”_

_Ignoring Lance’s squawk, Keith wraps his arms around him and lifts him, setting him on the edge of the pool. “I want you in my bed,” he says, darkly, against Lance’s lips. Excitement twists through him like candle smoke when Lance’s breath quickens._

_“Then take me there,” Lance replies, words dripping with innuendo. Water droplets fall from the tips of his hair and bead on his smooth shoulders._

_Keith hoists himself out of the water, climbing over the tiled edge. Lance’s eyes savor the shape of him from head to toe, licking up his body, flames that scorch but never burn. Feeling so wanted … it’s addictive._

_He reaches down, takes Lances warm hands to pull him out after him, get him on his feet. “Come with me,” he says, and smirks as Lance’s blue eyes darken with lust._

**_iv._ **

_A shower and an orgasm later, they make it into Keith’s bedroom. As they fall onto the wide bed, Lance’s eyes stare at the canopy above them for a moment, before flicking back to Keith’s face._

_“Nice place you’ve got here.”_

_Keith doesn’t want to talk. Claims Lance’s mouth again, moving to his brow, his cheeks, every perfect inch of him._

_“God, you’re so hot,” Lance breathes, grinding his hips up. The breath goes right out of Keith, and he responds by burying his face in Lance’s neck, ravishing it with teeth and tongue._

_Lance’s hands slide over his body, trying to map everything at once. He presses Keith close, sighs against his cheek. Keith shudders, Lance’s touch leaving swathes of delight glowing on his skin._

_Teeth catch Keith’s earlobe, tugging gently, the sensation sending his heart into overdrive._

_“Hey, babe?” The tone is probably supposed to be sultry, but there’s a tremor in it that’s almost bashful._

_“Mm?”_

_Lance squeezes the backs of Keith’s thighs. “Give it to me from behind,” he whispers. “Please?”_

 

**_v._ **

_Keith knows what_ bliss _means, now. Nothing in the world even comes close to having Lance on all fours, shoulder blades moving under unblemished skin, strength and beauty melded._

_As Keith bottoms out, his breathing goes ragged – the sight of himself all the way inside Lance is almost too much._

_“Fuck, Lance …”_

_Keith’s hand grips Lance’s thigh, the muscles tense, but his hipbone sharp and prominent._

_Lance pushes back on him, his hips trembling with exertion, but still straining toward Keith, pressing him in as deep as he’ll go. “Fuck me, Keith. I want it. I want you.”_

_He obliges. What else can he do?_ Faster, harder, more _– Keith has never been so quick to please._

_His whole body is buzzing, his mind just a melted mess, and he keeps moving until Lance tightens around him and cries out. The sweet aftershocks pulse into Keith, bringing him to the edge – and he pulls out, works himself through those last few strokes, as Lance moans into the pillow._

_Bliss._

_Coming down from the heights of euphoria and seeing his cum on Lance’s warm brown skin has Keith’s head spinning. Will he ever tire of looking at it? Lance seems to enjoy it so much, eyes narrowing in pleasure as he arches his spine to examine the mess on the curve of his ass. The whole scene is like a punch straight to Keith’s heart._

_He loves that he can indulge the overwhelming urge to sweep in and kiss him, kiss and kiss until both their mouths are swollen and cherry-stained._

_They tangle together after, airy sheets thrown over their sweat-damp bodies. Lance’s back nestles against Keith’s chest, and he strokes his thumb over Keith’s knuckles as Keith presses light kisses to his neck._

_Part of Keith wants to go again. Another part is happy to relax into the blissful contentment of having a sleepy, fucked-out Lance in his bed._

_They murmur to each other in soft voices. Lance asks Keith if he’s nervous; Keith, immediately figuring out that he’s referring to the approaching mission, concedes that he is._

_“Everything will be fine. We have to believe that. I mean, if you and I can end up like_ this _” – Lance nudges his adorable ass against Keith’s crotch, and Keith almost curses aloud – “then anything’s possible, right?”_

_Affection surges through Keith. He rolls his body right on top of Lance, who grunts with impact, but grins as they end up facing one another._

_Keith kisses him, hard. The scent of him rises into Keith’s head, making him dizzy, delirious with love._

I love him.

_Lance yields, mouth opening, arm winding around Keith, nails digging sweetly into his back. Unimaginable. Unimaginably perfect._

_He doesn’t want to think about what might happen when he goes off to join the Blade, but somehow, suddenly, he dares to hope._

_Maybe Lance is right._

_Maybe anything_ is _possible._

* * *

 

The Marmora suit hugs his body like a second skin, absorbing the sweat pouring from every inch of him.

Keith pulls himself through the vent hand over hand, a little at a time. Nerves and adrenaline have got him in their grasp, and struggling against it has all his systems on overdrive.

As he passes a grate in the side of the vent, his arms and hands, sheathed in hard black polycarbonate fiber, are bathed in ghostly purple light. Zarkon’s palace, like the Blade HQ, favors purple. Is it a cultural thing? Does purple look the same to Galra as it does to humans?

Does purple look the same to humans as it does to Keith?

He swallows, grits his teeth. Pointless thoughts again. He’s having trouble banishing them – this motion is too repetitive, too easy, and when Keith’s body isn’t being challenged, his mind takes over.

A comms device nestles in his ear, but it’s as silent as an empty cocoon, a husk long vacated by its occupant. Shiro and the other Blades are only a call away, but somehow, the physical loneliness is crushing.

 _Remember, patience yields focus._ That was the last thing Shiro said to him before they shut off comms. His voice was so close and familiar in Keith’s ear, despite the electric crackle. Keith might never hear it again. That awareness, sharp as midday sunlight stabbing through a shattered window, has his throat closing up.

He can’t get hung up on it. Keith’s here as a soldier. Emotions are a luxury he can’t afford.

His arms still ache a little, welcoming the stretch of crawling after spending so long curled inside a cargo box. Months of rigorous training, disciplining his mind and body, all led up to this: he and two others squeezed together, unmoving, barely breathing, as they were brought into the heart of the Galra Kingdom under the guise of an innocuous routine shipment. A Blade contact on the inside helped Keith and the others out of the cargo bay and into the secret, twisting paths hidden in the Palace’s depths. Stealth is key: a group of rebels can’t take on an army. Galra disdain subterfuge, but there’s no point in throwing themselves to their deaths.

Thoughts buffet through his brain like debris on an unsettled sea. Keith zones back in on the present, anchors himself back into his body: putting one arm in front of the other, knees aching as he crawls along the narrow space. Sinew and muscle and singular focus – that’s what he must become. The success of the mission depends on it.

Thace explained the plan to Keith during training, over and over, until he knew it like the back of his hand. They’re attacking during a Galra holiday: the tending of the Kral Zera. The sacred flame at the heart of the palace has burned for millennia, and it is the duty of each Galra dynasty to make sure its light carries on. Technically it’s the work of attendants throughout the year, but symbolically, the monarch’s ritual blessing is what keeps the fuchsia fire lit. As a result, the royal family will be inside the palace during a period spanning five Daibazaal days.

Today is the third day, and the day of their strike.

Outside, several teams headed by Ulaz are setting up a diversion. Multiple explosions have been strategically placed to draw the palace guards out in numbers as great as possible. Once they’re out, other teams will lock down the palace from the inside, essentially placing it under siege. Once Zarkon is securely trapped within his own stronghold, Kolivan’s team will move.

Capturing the tyrant is the goal of their operation. Then the trials against him can begin, and Zarkon’s insurrections will finally be punished.

 _He killed my family._ The pain in Keith’s chest is dull – an ache for something taken from him before it could be known, rather than grief for something lost.

Keith breathes deep, focuses on dissolving every distraction, and checks the map on the HUD inside his helmet. He’s approaching his target: a sentry control room, part of the palace’s automated defense system. Two of the alarm consoles he’s been tasked with disabling are down already. This is the last one.

During briefing, part of Keith soured at being given such a peripheral role. But by Blade standards, he’s less than a rookie. It would make no sense to send him into the main fray.

_So if I’m not a hero, what am I?_

An heir without a kingdom, fighting for his crown to gain the right to give it up.

For the Republic. For a future, hopefully.

Keith, Shiro, Thace, and a Blade named Regris are each responsible for taking out one area housing alarm centers. There can be no backup left to call on by the time Kolivan’s team moves in on Zarkon. The other three are sneaking in through maintenance tunnels – a slower, far less convenient route, where the risk of discovery is much greater. Being small enough to take the vents is a mixed blessing, Keith thinks grimly. They’re Galra-sized – so roomier – but Keith’s aware of the roof only a couple inches above his shoulders, the preemptive bruising of his body catching on it.

The red dot on the HUD representing his position approaches the edge of the control room, just as he spots the shaft ending up ahead. It doesn’t extend into the room itself – security measure, Keith supposes.

He peers through the grate and down into the corridor below. Two robot sentries guard the door, the LED strips in their visors glowing a standby red. The effect is ominous. _Don’t think about it._

Keith reaches into one of the pockets on the belt of his suit, retrieving a sort of multipurpose screwdriver and a small EMP device. He detaches the grate with the screwdriver and gently lays it down on the inside of the vent.

 _Here goes._ He presses a button on the EMP device and lets it fly before the sentries have time to react.

It drops down between them, silently releases its deadly pulse.

The blast is weak, but it’s enough – the sentries slacken, mechanical limbs losing any alertness they had.

The effect is only temporary. Time is short.

Keith rolls out of the space left by the grate, the world tumbling past him in a blur of purple-grey. He lands on the balls of his feet, and draws his knife. Closing his eyes briefly, he finds that still pool of conviction at his core. After training daily for months upon months, it’s as natural to him as crouching down for a jump and then leaping – a far cry from the pathetic initial attempts to reawaken his blade, hampered by impatience and frustration.

The sword materializes in Keith’s hand, reinforced edge razor sharp and alive with lavender light. Keith slices the sentries’ heads from their necks and their arms from their torsos, before the EMP blast’s effects wear off and they’re able to reanimate. He lays the pieces gently to rest beside the bodies, a bizarrely macabre display, as the slashed-off stumps buzz and spark with dying circuitry.

Keith walks up to the door and enters the five-digit code flickering in the corner of his HUD. Their people on the inside risked everything to obtain this information. With each button press, Keith’s heart pounds louder and louder, taking over the inside of his skull, all thoughts drowned out by a throbbing mantra of _please work, please work, please please please—_

He presses the final digit, and the keypad flashes a welcoming blue. Automatic doors slide open to admit him, and Keith’s breath leaves him in a sigh.

He drags the dismembered sentries inside the room, an odd jumble of metal limbs. His heart has dropped into his throat, still fluttering madly like a caged butterfly.

The console looms at the far side of the little room, flickering with multicolored lights. Keith fishes a tiny hacking device out of a pocket in his utility belt, sticks the round piece of metal to the surface of the machine.

The program inside is called a worm. It enters the system, its own code camouflaged to resemble that of the system’s own. Then it interfaces with it, corrupting the data from within. The system remains active, but selectively blind – effectively incapacitated by the insidious virus. Thankfully for Keith, he doesn’t really have to _do_ anything to the computer – he’s just the messenger, the Trojan horse bringing weapons inside the walls.

Keith waits, breath caught in his throat, staring at the red lights on the worm’s carapace until they start burning negatives into his retinas. The device has worked so far, but what if it doesn’t this time?

_Come on, come on …_

The lights flip to green, and Keith exhales, limbs going pliant from relief.

He activates his comms, speaking under his breath. “Gamma-three clear. Moving back to central.”

A moment later, his earphones crackle. “Copy. Moving into Beta-two.” Thace. “We’ll reconvene as soon as possible.”

“Roger. Over and out.”

The earbuds go dead again. Keith detaches the worm from the system, now thoroughly infected, and stashes it back in his utility belt.

All three of his targets are down.

_Don’t let yourself relax._

Keith closes the door of the alarm center behind him and grapples back up to the vent, sliding smoothly inside it.

The palace is enormous. The suit does a good job of protecting his hands and knees, but his joints are aching from crawling so far. He opens the interface back up inside his mask, checks the map for the shortest route, and sets his course.

After another fifteen minutes of agonizingly slow crawling, the flashlight beams on Keith’s helmet illuminate a portion of the vent that plunges straight down.

“Shit,” he mutters, peering over the edge. It’s narrower than the rest of the vent, too. He’s been able to pull off this bad-movie stunt this far because Galra architecture, as a general rule, is bigger, but this squeeze is going to be tight.

 _Okay, Keith. You can do this._ Years of living on the streets have prepared him for this.

Gingerly, he edges himself down into the narrow gap, back pressed up against one side and the rubbery soles of the suit’s shoes braced against the other. An inch at a time, he begins to walk himself down.

 _Just one more step,_ Keith tells himself, each time he takes another. _Just one more._

And it’s so fucking typical, isn’t it? He doesn’t know if it’s exhaustion or tension or some cocktail of both, but it happens.

His leg cramps, a spear of pain shooting through the muscle of his thigh.

Keith’s mind explodes in a red, wordless curse. His foot loses traction; he does his best to slow himself with his back and hands, but nonetheless, he skids down to the bottom. His weight slams into the floor of the vent with an undignified _clang_.

Pulse thundering in his ears, every warning signal in his body spiking, Keith struggles to get himself back under control. He barely even feels the bruises inevitably forming on his skin. Finally, he manages to catch his breath, get back on his feet.

He stays there, crouching, for a solid minute, blood roaring in his ears. _Calm down. All the alarm systems are offline. Most of the palace guard should have been drawn outside by the diversion. It’s extremely unlikely that a patrol is passing by._ From what he saw on the HUD, this vent follows a portion of the palace that seems dedicated to office space – not something that would be active during the night.

 _Besides, even if anyone did hear the noise,_ he tells himself, as his breathing slows, _it’s not like there’s much they could do about it._

Famous last words, huh?

The side of the vent is _sundered_ – slashed apart all at once by a devastating force, the sound of metal tearing into metal resounding in Keith’s skull. He rolls to the side just quick enough to evade the object embedding itself in the wall behind him.

_That’s a fucking sword!_

His heartbeat shoots out of his chest, merges with his entire body – even his fingertips are pounding. Adrenaline throws his eyes wide open and floods his brain like a fire devouring a forest, swift and all-consuming.

_What the—?_

“I thought I heard a rat,” hisses a voice – a voice that sounds like it belongs in a fine parlor, not emanating from someone who just rent metal with his blade. “Unlucky. You ran into the one person around here who knows all the hiding places.”

The sword is wrenched from the wall. Its wielder slashes again, and Keith throws himself to the side, curling his body as tiny as it will go and rolling out through the gap left by the first blow. He lands hands first, neck curled in, absorbing the impact of his fall into a somersault.

He leaps to his feet, terror muting the pain in his battered body. The first thing he registers is the spot where he fell out – this part of the vent is low and exposed, and now ruined by a heinous gash.

Keith tears his gaze away from it, and finds himself staring straight into the eyes of Lance’s ex-lover.

The long white hair, the strong-yet-slender build, the elegant features. It’s him, every inch.

He’s big – not full-Galra big, but much bigger than Keith, bigger than even Shiro. Still, Keith has a sudden, vivid flash of him as a boy, young and frightened, before his golden eyes gained their cunning gleam. Crouched in the vents like Keith was, traveling unseen.

Keith registers dark circles beneath Prince Lotor’s eyes before he hurls himself to the side again, dodging another blow. A wash of cold sweat gushes down his body. He fumbles his blade out of his belt. It seems to tremble in his hand, as anxious as he is. Still, he manages to find that pool of silence deep within, and the weight of the fully-formed sword dropping into his hand is a tangible comfort.

“Marmoran,” Lotor growls. Keith startles, the surprise in his body language met by a fanged grin. “Oh, your little organization isn’t as secret as it likes to believe. The walls are quite talkative, if one bothers to listen.”

He lunges again. Keith barely has time to react. Lotor’s speed is incomprehensible, overwhelming, his sword arm just a blur.

Evade. Side-step. Don’t think. Thinking is overthinking is misstepping is death.

“I figured there was something odd about the new guards outside my chambers.” Lotor sounds so unbothered, but there’s something … off about him. An edge of hysteria, of intelligence gone awry. “ _Very_ keen to keep me in. Father’s request, hmm? Bullshit. That man has never cared what I do. Well, unfortunately for them, the front door is only _one_ of the ways I can leave by.”

 _He must be here for the Kral Zera._ Keith struggles to piece together what happened. The new “guards” must have been Blades. _But why in the world would they underestimate him?_

From Lance, Keith has gleaned that Lotor suffers from a substance problem. Is he wired on something right now? It would explain the wildness in his eyes. Maybe the Blades figured King Zarkon’s addict son would be easy to contain, that keeping him in his chambers would be enough. Clearly, they were wrong.

“I’m sorry, little Blade,” Lotor sighs, twirling his sword almost disinterestedly in one hand. “Where there’s one rat, there’s bound to be a swarm, and I don’t feel like getting bitten.”

 _He’s going to kill me,_ Keith realizes, with startling clarity. He is suddenly, horribly aware of his own arrogance – at ever thinking he could have played a bigger role in this. Lotor is fast and deadly beyond compare. How powerful must his father, a Galra war-king, be?

Keith relies on speed, dodging as Lotor swipes at him. The blows are lazy somehow – he isn’t _trying_ yet. “Besides,” Lotor goes on, grin turning manic, “my father and I have had to put up with one another for the past three days, and it has put me in a rather foul mood.”

 _This is the man who touched Lance,_ Keith thinks. The same lithe body that has lain in Keith’s arms so many times has been caressed by these hands and walked away unscathed – at the very most sweetly bruised, by his own wishes. Keith’s body tightens inward, a sharp and bitter pulse.

Who was Lance’s Lotor? Languid, gentle, seductive? Certainly not a whirlwind of skill and strategy, with slaughter in his eyes. A man who would call his ex-something, drunk and sobbing, is not a man Keith ever figured he’d be fighting off with a sword.

 _I can’t end up at his mercy._ Keith’s heart is racing nearly as quickly as his mind. If Lotor manages to pin him down, he doesn’t stand a chance. _But what do I do?_

Images of running the prince through with his blade rise, unbidden, into Keith’s mind. Followed, closely, by Lance’s wide blue eyes, the way he cried into Keith’s shoulder. A preemptive sort of guilt stabs through him. Could he kill him, even if he had to?

“You’re so small,” Lotor muses – _muses_ – as Keith dances out of reach of his sword. “They’re so desperate they’re recruiting children now?”

 _Don’t tell him anything,_ Keith’s mind urges, but looking at this man – Galra and not-Galra, all at once – has a twisted, primal need for kinship crying out within him. And so Keith spits, “I’m a half-blood.”

Lotor’s eyes widen at that – flickering with some inscrutable emotion. “Interesting. And yet you’d fight for _them_?” He swipes his weapon in a broad stroke, preventing Keith from moving in. “You know, a half-blooded king could make some real changes – but I suppose we shall never know what could have been.”

“A half-blooded king? You mean you?”

“Who else is there?” That sends a chill through Keith. He flinches, glad Lotor can’t see his face. “But sadly for both of us, little Marmoran, I’m not a fool. I know when I’ve lost. I’m not popular with these people. Succession was my only way onto that throne.”

“So what was your plan? Sit around feeling bitter while your father enslaves worlds upon worlds?”

Sharp whip-crack laughter. “No. Let him build an empire, then get rid of him before he could get rid of me.”

Lotor lunges, and Keith steps back at the last second, the tip of Lotor’s blade slicing past his nose.

“And trust me,” Lotor snarls. “He wanted to.”

“You would let people die while your father conquers their homeworlds?”

“Set them free and they will annihilate one another! The planets being taken over are ravaged by internal strife, ripping one another apart over petty feuds. They’ll be gone within the century if it’s allowed to continue. Galra rule can lend them unification. Stability. Prosperity.” Each word is punctuated by another slash. “Everything they’ll never have if they’re left to _you_.”

“And why is this up to you to decide?” Keith snarls, his attempts to break past Lotor’s defenses effortlessly blocked. “You’re just a little better? A little stronger? A bit more fit to rule?”

“Exactly.” Lotor smirks, and lands a devastating blow. Keith grunts under the force of it, arms straining as he parries. He manages to push Lotor off, to leap away.

The words burn in his ragged throat. “I get the feeling this is less about the universe, and more about you.”

Lotor’s eyes narrow into slits. “Oh, by all means, feel free to believe that. How _unthinkable_ that anyone else should have had designs on ending this madman’s reign of terror.”

Keith ducks away from another strike. The wind from its wake whips over the crown of his head. His hair would have fluttered in it, if not for the helmet.

“It’s just as well. Rather poetic, isn’t it? Here I’ve been, plotting and scheming for years, only to have a long-dead order rise from the ashes to decapitate my father’s brief dynasty, and with it my delusions.”

Lotor slashes down, and Keith blocks it. They end up in deadlock, straining against each other. Keith’s teeth grind together like mortar and pestle, the soles of his boots struggling to maintain friction against the ground.

Keith stares into Lotor’s yellow eyes. The cold determination, the vein pulsing in his temple, the strange mania of his high – Keith can see all of it, but to Lotor, Keith’s face is only a blankly staring Marmora mask.

_I know who he is, but he has no idea about me._

Royal blood isn’t the only thing they have in common. Keith swallows, trying not to let his mind return to Lance.

His mind, of course, blatantly defies him.

Those bared fangs are the ones that left wine-stain marks on Lance’s skin. Those lips have made the man Keith loves moan and tremble. The hands wielding that sword have stroked his long brown thighs.

Keith is gripped by the most inappropriate of emotions – a deep and simmering jealousy.

_Harness it. Let it drive you._

He pushes away, bracing his own weapon against Lotor’s to send himself skidding far out of Lotor’s reach.

Lotor can’t be beaten by brute strength. Keith needs to stay on his toes, dance around him until he sees an opening – then and only then can he strike. Anything else could be fatal.

And he can’t risk that.

For Lance. For Shiro. For the Blade that believes in him. Even for the Madame – for Junko, who gave him a life worth living. Whom he never once called _Mother_. Did that ever make her sad?

As he jumps aside, his arm brushes against his utility belt. An idea pops into his mind.

He has one EMP bomb left.

It’s useless against organics, but Lotor doesn’t know that. To him, it could be anything.

Dice tumble through the depths of Keith’s mind. He takes a deep breath of stale palace air, decides not to think about the outcome of the roll. Tries not to picture snake-eyes staring up at him.

He has to make this gamble.

He grabs the EMP device out of his belt and tosses it straight at Lotor’s face.

Time moves in flash-freezes, split by dark bands of stillness. Keith is watching the film-reel of his life, frames ticking past one by one.

Lotor jumps back, startled, to avoid the mechanical projectile …

… and it’s so brief

it’s barely anything at all

but it’s an opening.

He takes it.

Keith’s palm is soaked with sweat, but the grip of the suit’s gloves stay firm around the sword handle.

He swings the weapon in a wide arc—

—he’s never moved so fast in his _life_ —

—his body sparking and pinging with terror and chemicals and rage—

—and Lotor isn’t wearing armor.

Keith’s blade cleaves. Robe and muscle and bone part around its edge like meat on a cutting board.

Split seconds. Frames.

Lotor’s sword clatters to the ground, as the fingers holding it slacken.

The bottom half of his arm follows, with a dull thud.

Then the blood.

It’s as if Lotor’s expressions play out along a different timeline, separate from the rest of his body. _Shock. Indignance. Pain._

His purple face drains of blood, and Keith Kogane stares at the outcome of that dice roll, at this proof that odds can be defied.

_Boxcars._

He’s won.

His face flushes with preemptive triumph.

But before Keith can move toward Lotor, a spot in the air in front of him _warps_ , twisting as if from extreme heat.

The blood pouring from the stump of Prince Lotor’s sword arm abruptly stops flowing.

Keith’s mind stutters to a stop.

_What?_

Then Lotor is running. Tearing down the empty corridor at an impossible speed.

_What just happened?_

Keith took his arm off. He should be bleeding out, and instead, he’s _getting away_.

Keith’s feet move quicker than his mind, carrying him into pursuit. Despite his size, Lotor is horrifyingly swift. They’re both exhausted from battle, but even so, Keith would have thought he could keep pace with someone who, by every reasonable standard, should be mortally wounded.

He’s lagging behind. He catches a glimpse of white hair up ahead, rapidly disappearing into the distance.

Keith’s soles pound against the floor—his heart pounds against his ribs—

—he whips around a corner, and—

—Prince Lotor is gone.

“No!” Keith exclaims, sounding young and desperate even to himself. Frustration and adrenaline have his heart near to bursting. “Shit. Where’d he _go_?”

Rage at Lotor and at himself blurs his vision, reddens his mind.

They’re supposed to be on lockdown, but Prince Lotor already appeared somewhere he was not supposed to be. Who knows what other paths he’s aware of?

Humiliated, Keith is forced to return down the corridor, to the spot where they fought. Lotor’s right arm is still there, on the floor, leaking dark blood. He tears his eyes away from the gruesome reminder.

What in the world _was_ that? It looked like he’d cauterized his own wound, using only thin air. _Impossible._

Anger and disappointment still pulse inside him, leaving a foul, sharp taste on his tongue. Ultimately, though, there’s also relief. No one can say what consequences Lotor’s escape might bring, but if things had gone the logical way, Keith’s blow would have killed him.

_How the fuck would I have dealt with that?_

It’s meaningless to even wonder about those what-ifs. Keith blocks it out of his mind, choosing to be grateful that his once-lover’s death is one piece of news he’ll never have to break to Lance.

He takes the hallway back, skulking in the shadows as best he can. His team has made certain that the automatic systems are down, and any organic guards who may still be straggling shouldn’t be a match for him.

 _Don’t get overconfident,_ he reminds himself. His body may be overclocking, but he’s worn out. It would be pointless to survive a battle with Prince Lotor only to be stabbed in the back by some stray patrol guard.

So Keith stays in the dark corners. But he refuses to climb back into the vents.

He radios the others, tells them what happened. Soothes their shocked exclamations with reassurances that he’s fine.

“But Lotor got away,” he says, voice hoarse and small. “I … I couldn’t catch him. I’m sorry.”

“We can’t afford to worry about Prince Lotor,” says Thace. “The mission is too far along. I’ll pass the info on to Kolivan’s team, but it’s unlikely that he can do anything that would make a difference now.”

Keith will just have to believe that. Besides, if Lotor’s monologue is anything to go on, it sounded like he had already given up. He pushes down the sour feeling of defeat lingering in his gut.

When he arrives at the crossroads of the maintenance tunnels that they’d designated as their meeting spot, Regris is already there. Keith inclines his head to the other Blade, who twitches his tail in response.

The tension refuses to melt off his bones. His heart is still beating fast from the fight with Lotor, the shock of his escape.

In the distance, footsteps approach. A broad-shouldered figure in a Marmora suit emerges into the dim light of the tunnels.

“Shiro!” Keith exclaims, and has to restrain himself from bolting toward him and throwing himself into the protective circle of his arms.

Shiro grins, dark eyes crinkling beneath his shock of white hair. He closes the distance between himself and Keith in a few brisk steps, and lets Keith collapse against his muscular chest, wrapping him in a strong embrace. Keith squeezes Shiro tight, his scent and the rhythm of his pulse bleeding new vigor into Keith for each second they hold each other.

“Hey,” says Shiro, voice rumbling against Keith’s ear. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.” He very nearly cries – his throat’s tight, and his body feels strangely raw and empty – but it’s as if he physiologically just _can’t_ have an emotional reaction right now. His eyes stay dry.

They disentangle, Shiro keeping one hand firmly on Keith’s elbow. He also takes a moment to greet Regris, who’s been standing somehow awkwardly to the side. Together, the three of them wait for Thace, the final member, to arrive.

He announces himself over comms before he shows up, and they breathe a collective sigh of relief when his distinctive triangular ear-tufts come into view. The Keith in the alley on that day so long ago, frightened and furious, could never have imagined greeting the man who had chased him down like an old friend.

“All systems down, then,” Thace announces. “The diversion should be well underway, and the other teams starting to lock down the palace.” He looks around at each of them in turn. “We should go help them. Keith, with me. Shiro, Regris, head south.”

A stab of reluctance passes through Keith at leaving Shiro again. At the same time, he knows they’re being split up on purpose – during training, it became painfully obvious that they would sacrifice anything to save one another, and Kolivan refused to compromise the mission for two of its operatives.

As the two teams part ways, masks securely back in place, Keith stares at Thace’s broad back. Finds his voice, tentatively. “Thace …”

“Mm?”

“When I fought Prince Lotor …”

Thace’s demeanor darkens. “Go on.”

“Well, he did something he … shouldn’t have been able to do.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“Can you try?”

“I … cut off his arm. He shouldn’t have been able to run without bleeding out.” Keith’s brow tightens into a frown as he recalls it, and Thace’s eyes widen. “But he … sealed the wound, somehow. It closed right up, and he escaped.”

The admittance of defeat tastes bitter on Keith’s tongue, but there’s no helping that now.

Thace hesitates for a moment, before he speaks. “Prince Lotor has Altean blood. Some Alteans are shapeshifters. He might have found a way to … adapt those abilities. To heal himself.”

Vessel and sinew and skin, curling back in on themselves, knitting the wound closed … Keith’s own eyes clench shut, a sympathetic echo of that pain stabbing through him.

No matter what he may think of Lotor, Keith can’t deny he’s formidable.

“You cut off his arm,” Thace repeats, incredulous. “Holy _shit_ , Keith.”

“I think he was high on something. I don’t know if I could have taken him if he was in his right mind.”

“Still, that’s no easy feat. Don’t sell yourself short.”

They head up the stairs, back toward the surface, to begin perimeter patrol. Thace is about to open his mouth when he and Keith both freeze, their earbuds suddenly alive with static.

Kolivan’s deep voice fills Keith’s ears.

“Paging all teams: main objective complete. Zarkon has been successfully captured.”

 

* * *

  

They meet the others in the palace courtyard. For the first time, Keith steps out onto the surface of his mother’s home planet.

It’s different than he imagined – some cliché-ridden part of him expected overcast gloom, dead trees, the whole haunted house deal. Instead, the air is crisp, the sky dawning, the horizon soaked a rich, royal blue.

The high, imposing palace walls jut up around them, the building giving off the impression of a sleeping beast – at any time, it could be roused, shaking its thorny back and destroying them all. Still, this courtyard possesses a quiet beauty. Paths snake in symmetrical patterns, and the fountains overflow, even at night. The meditative sound of water trickling is almost ridiculous juxtaposed against the night’s events – a tyrant has been overthrown, yet the serenity of the royal garden remains indifferent and unchanging.

Keith’s ancestors have walked here. For a moment, the breeze seems to him like history whispering over his skin.

Kolivan stands at the center of the courtyard, white braid whipping in the wind. His armor bears the scuffs of battle, and there are fresh bruises on his face, but his spine is straight with triumph.

The other members of Kolivan’s team are all in the audience but one. Ilun is in critical condition, having been dealt a monstrous blow by Zarkon’s blade. If she can make it until morning, she has a good chance of surviving, is the word being passed around the ranks of concerned Blades.

Keith swallows, looks around at the faces of the other Blades. Grimly victorious. King Zarkon lies bound and tranquilized in his own dungeon. When he does wake up, it will be as a prisoner, awaiting judgment.

They did it.

“We may have won the battle, but this isn’t over yet,” Kolivan warns. “Zarkon’s lords will hear about this, and they’ll be on their way.”

“The Blade does not fight alone,” Thace reminds everyone. “Many Galra support our cause, and will stand with us against the former regime.”

Nods of determination from the surrounding soldiers. They all believe in marching firmly forward – what else can they do? The way back caved in behind them a long time ago.

Keith can barely listen to the rest of Kolivan’s address. His stomach feels hollow, and his head light from all this fresh air. He’s so adrift that by the time everyone begins to scatter, he doesn’t even notice Kolivan approaching him.

“Hello, Keith.”

He jumps, startled. Bows his head in respect. “Sir.”

“I heard about your run-in with Prince Lotor.”

“Yes.” Keith swallows, all the guilt and rage and nausea rushing back up in his core. “He got away.”

“An unidentified shuttle was seen evacuating earlier. It didn’t leave from one of the palace bays, so it passed beneath our radar until it was too late.”

Keith struggles to keep his face composed. The tension tightening his brow informs him he is failing.

_Respond. Say something._

“Prince Lotor was not his father,” Kolivan says, in the closest thing he has to a reassuring tone, before Keith is able to get his own mouth to move. “He can’t be a priority right now, especially after that wound you dealt him. Wherever he is, and whatever he’s plotting, he’s likely weakened, and entirely alone.”

A misplaced spear of sympathy jabs through Keith’s heart.

“We have many announcements to make. We must get the word out to the people that things are about to change.” Kolivan’s piercing gaze lands on Keith. “Keith, we’re going to need your help. Will you come with me to record your message?”

Keith nods once, hard with determination on the outside, though his insides swirl with nervous dread. Facing these people – _his_ people – is a daunting task, even separated from them by time and camera equipment.

There’s much left to do. Zarkon must be brought to trial, his warlords dealt with, new government established and democracy brought to the kingdom-turned-republic.

Can a rogue prince with one arm threaten that? Would he want to?

Only time will tell.

 

* * *

 

_My name is Keith Kogane._

_I never knew my mother, but many of you might have._

_And all of you knew my aunt._

_I am the last member of Queen Marmora’s line. The insurrection committed by Zarkon, this man who calls himself King, was a crime against the Galra people and the Galra way. I was estranged, and raised human. I’m living proof of Zarkon’s sins. The only living proof._

_Some might call me heir. But I do not presume to rule you, or ask you to replace one monarch with another. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, cast away from half my blood by Zarkon’s mutiny._

_I ask you only to raise your heads high. To refuse to bow down to a tyrant, refuse to blindly accept his mad venture of intergalactic war. I ask you to embrace a future where the Galra lead not by force, but by example. Not by attack, but by alliance. Not by fighting vicious enemies, but by making powerful friends._

_It’s time for us to become a people that chooses its leaders, not one that accepts the rule of those who roar the loudest, hit the hardest, or sharpen their swords in the darkest corners. It’s time to let every Galra voice be heard._

_My name is Keith Kogane, and I stand with the Galra Republic._

 

* * *

 

After stumbling out of the recording booth, Keith feels weirdly dizzy. When did he last eat? Earlier, someone had given him a glass of thick, syrupy juice; he needs to get his hands on more of it and its invigorating sugars as soon as he can.

“Thank you, Keith.” Kolivan’s tone is genuine. “You’ve done well.”

Keith chews his lip, stares down at his shoes for a second before lifting his gaze to Kolivan’s face. “I feel like it’s transparent. Like I’m a puppet. It doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

Maybe there was some note of accusation in his voice, because when Kolivan replies, he sounds apologetic. “I suppose not. I’m sorry. We’ve used you, in a sense. You’ve been forced to put up with more than, perhaps, you should have had to.” Keith doesn’t deny it, just lets him continue. “The formation of the Council waits, and I promise you that once on it, you will have full autonomy. Your word will hold sway.”

Keith looks into the leader’s eyes, and nods once, hoping the gesture conveys all the complex emotions he’s feeling. He’s tired. Everything else – all the politics and threads of intrigue – can be dealt with on another day. “Are we done here?”

“Yes.”

“One more thing. Is there a holodeck somewhere that I can use?”

“I’m sure. Ask Regris about it.” Kolivan frowns. “How come?”

Blue eyes. Bright smile. Insufferable sass. It may have been months since he last saw him, or heard his voice, but Keith has kept a pristine image of him close to his heart.

“There’s someone I have to call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figuring out and subsequently writing this chapter is one of the hardest things i have ever done. i still don't know how i feel about the way it turned out, but it. is. here. thank you so much for reading this far. we are so, so close to the end. by the time the next chapter is posted, the whole fic _will_ be written, and we'll get to the finale fast. if you've been patient with me for this long, keep holding on -- i'm hoping to wrap things up completely before season six  <3
> 
> as always, i adore comments on ao3 and messages on [tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/)! c: much love to you.


	14. Chartreuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are meetings and partings both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're still here, i love you so so much. i apologize in advance for inordinate amounts of cheese.

The clay mask is still drying on Lance’s face when his phone starts to ring.

Groaning and blinking his eyes open, he sits up cross-legged on his bed and reaches for the phone. He frowns at the screen. It’s a request for a holo call, from an unfamiliar number. Weird.

He’s caked in goo with his hair swaddled by a towel, and also has no idea who the caller is. He connects to the hololink as audio-only, leaning back in bed as the other party’s silvery hologram buzzes into view.

Lance’s heart leaps in his chest, and all at once every inch of his body is electric.

Black hair, shorter than the last time Lance saw him. Big, dark eyes. A face Lance wants to kiss a million times more than he ever wanted to punch it.

It’s as if a hand has reached behind Lance’s ribs and stolen the breath right out of him. A strangled “Oh, my god” is all that slips past his lips.

Keith frowns, perplexed by Lance’s missing video feed. “Lance?”

His voice. His _voice_. How long has Lance been thinking about this? Trying _not_ to think about it, and still failing, still going to bed every night with a tight fist around his heart and only an inner conviction that _he’s alive, he has to be alive_.

“Keith. Keith, holy _fuck_. Hold on …” And he scrambles to get to his phone, to activate video for his side of the connection. His hands are shaking, he fumbles with the button – but the second he manages, Keith’s face melts into a smile that’s so full of affection Lance could fucking _sing_.

_He looks like that because of me. He’s looking at me like that._ He can’t help it – he bounces a little on the bed.

“Hi,” Keith says. “Nice look.”

At least the mask helps hide his blush. “Hey. Thanks.”

If there’s anything a young Lance Álvarez would never have believed, it was that one day he’d be locked in a long gazing match with Keith Kogane, unable to look away, barely even able to breathe. Because of how much he’s missed him. How much he loves him.

Finally, Lance finds his voice again. “So. You’re allowed calls now?”

“Yeah.” Keith lifts his chin, his shoulders squaring with triumph. “The coup is over. Zarkon’s down.”

Wow. The universe is changing, and Lance’s boyfriend was right on the front lines, witnessing it all happen.

“That’s amazing. I …” Lance has to cover his face with his hand, take a moment to process all of the emotions surging through him. Relief. Longing. Exhilaration. “I don’t even know what to say, Keith. I’m just … shit, man, I’m just so happy.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Keith’s mouth forms a little smile that has Lance’s stomach swooping, before it drops as quickly as it appeared. “Lance, I, uh … I miss you. So much.”

“I miss you too. Oh, jeez – you have to tell me _everything_.”

“Whoa. Where do I even start?”

He starts at the beginning. Lance listens raptly, both taking in details of Keith’s story and allowing himself to be lulled into contentment by the sound of his husky voice. _God, he’s so cool._ Of course Keith would be the one to live through something like that. He’s brave and strong – and stars, Lance is proud.

As he’s regaled with the tale of the Marmora revolution, an unwelcome question starts to tickle at his mind. He might as well ask it, confirm the worst if that’s how it has to be. “I, uh … I’m sorry for bringing this up, but – Lotor.” Keith’s expression darkens with understanding. “Is he …”

“He escaped,” Keith murmurs, without meeting Lance’s eyes. “They saw his shuttle leaving. No one knows where he went.”

Relief bleeds through Lance, loosening the knot of tension he was hardly even aware he was carrying. Lotor may be an unanswered question – but he could still be alive too, somewhere. _That’s enough for me,_ he tells himself firmly.

The subject changes, and it’s Lance’s turn to tell Keith what he’s been up to all this time. He flushes with satisfaction when Keith’s thick eyebrows shoot up, actually looking impressed.

Lance has no idea how long they talk, losing track of time. But, finally, Keith’s the one who says it first: _I really want to see you._

_Yeah. Me too._

And if there’s one thing the two of them have always been good at arranging, it’s ways to meet up.

 

* * *

 

Face mask rinsed off and skin radiant, Lance bursts out onto the bridge where Hunk and Pidge are sitting. Startled, Pidge looks up from their monitor, and Hunk yelps involuntarily, lowering the book he’s reading in his favorite beanbag chair.

Lance is certain his eyes must be glowing.

“Breaking news, you guys – my boyfriend is alive!”

Pidge’s jaw drops, Hunk’s eyes nearly bulge right out of his head, and all at once they’re both on their feet and rushing over to smother him in a tangle of arms and cheers.

“Drop everything!” Lance hoots, through his laughter and the warm press of his friends around him. “We’re going to Daibazaal!”

 

* * *

 

They plunge through the dark red atmosphere of the Galra homeworld, following the coordinates that Keith sent them. Whatever tensions might be rising in the wake of the revolution, it’s nothing that would prevent a ship from flying into a sector of airspace heavily protected by Marmoran forces.

As Kaltenecker sinks through the clouds, the rusty tinge the planet takes on from above begins to fade, giving way to a city sprawling out below. Lance is practically vibrating, his mind a snowstorm of happy static, but somehow his hands stay steady on the controls. The beautiful ship responds perfectly to every maneuver.

He brings her to a landing on the wide airfield. As soon as she’s parked, it’s as if his every action becomes a singular step in an endless sequence: kill the engine, unbuckle the belt, get to your feet, turn, walk out of the cockpit, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in …

Hunk squeezes his shoulder and Pidge gives his ass a firm slap as they disembark from the ship. _He said they’d be waiting at the airfield,_ Lance thinks, as the door slides open and he takes his first breath of crisp Daibazaal air. It doesn’t do much to clear the haze in his head. He begins to walk down the metal steps and onto the tarmac, casting his eyes around—

—and there he is.

There he _is_.

Standing at the end of the field, flanked by multiple Galra who dwarf him with their height – _Keith_.

He can’t help it. The second his feet touch paving, he _runs_.

He barely even feels the breathlessness or the burn in his muscles. The new alien world whips past him in a blur. He’s over there in a fucking flash.

“Keith, oh _god_ —”

Lance more or less _throws_ himself at Keith, barreling straight into him. It doesn’t unbalance him at all, and he catches Lance with ease, strong arms closing around him in an instant.

“You’re here,” Keith says – Keith’s voice, so close – against Lance’s temple.

“Fuck _yeah_ , I am.”

The emotion rising up in Lance is wet and warm and vibrant, like spring is happening at hyperspeed inside his heart. _I’m not crying,_ he realizes, to his own surprise; his throat has closed up, but his eyes stay dry, and his body shakes with something he isn’t sure if he should call laughter or sobs. Those palms against his back, this skin against his skin – it’s _right_. That’s the only word for it. _Right._

Lance buries his face in Keith’s shoulder, breathing him in. Keith’s scent brings with it a wave of sweet memories, recollections of safety and comfort washing through his mind in a beautiful, animal way. His body is solid and warm and real, so real. Lance holds him so tight he might burst.

This is perfect. Months of uncertainty ending all at once, with Keith in Lance’s arms.

Eventually, their iron grips on each other ease. Keith exhales, long and slow; Lance’s smile is threatening to split his face, but all he does is lean in until their foreheads gently bump together.

_I could count his eyelashes._

When the kiss comes, it’s sweet and soft and endlessly satisfying.

He’s not sure how long they stay in their own little world, but after months or moments, they disentangle. It takes a solid minute before the rest of the world phases back into existence around Lance. Hunk has actually teared up. Pidge is attempting to salvage the situation without succumbing to the suspicious puffiness in their own eyes. Keith’s team is professional and kind of intimidating, but a second look reveals that they’re kind of mushy around the edges, too.

They’re _that_ couple today. Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking delighted.

Pulling back and looking closer, Lance recognizes two people in Keith’s party immediately. One of them, he sees now, isn’t a Galra at all – it’s _Shiro_ , tall and perfect as ever. Lance is still star-struck, apparently, judging by the way his tongue seems to grow in his mouth at the mere thought of speaking to him.

The other one has distinctive purple sideburns and a neat goatee, framing a perfectly chiseled jaw. All at once, Lance flashes back to a night at a golden-lit bar that ended in a dark alley.

Their eyes meet, and Lance tenses.

“Hi. We’ve met,” Thace says coolly.

“Oh. Yep. Hi.”

He swallows and looks away like some sort of chump. _I apologize for burying a bullet in your leg_ is not a phrase he is capable of saying right now, okay?

Instead, he turns to the final member: a Galra woman, dressed in the same dark uniform as the men. “Hey,” Lance says, wrapping his arm snugly around Keith’s waist as he speaks. He doesn’t want to let go of him again, not if he can help it. “Name’s Lance. I’m Keith’s man.”

Keith responds to the claim with a playful nudge.

“So I’ve been told,” the Galra replies. Her tone is neutral, but there’s amusement in her golden eyes. “My name is Ilun. Let’s start heading back to the palace. Do any of you need something to eat?”

Hunk lets forth a cry of triumph.

They pile into hovercars and make the short trip back to the Galra palace. On the way, Lance has time to notice all the details about Keith that were blurred out by his initial excitement. His hair is neatly washed and combed, and it really is shorter now, the tips just brushing the high collar of his grey jacket. And he looks stronger somehow, more defined – must be all that training. Lance could be imagining the new solemnity in the planes of his face, but one thing is for sure: he’s beautiful, and he’s safe, and he’s _here_.

He’s here, and holding hands with Lance in the back seat. Pidge and Hunk are in the car with Ilun, and Thace is driving Keith and Lance, with Shiro riding shotgun.

That reminds him. _Come on, Lance. This is as good a moment as any._

“Hey, um, Thace?”

“Mm?”

“Sorry for, uh … shooting you that one time.”

Rumbling laughter from the front seat. “Don’t sweat it.”

That easy. Sweet.

“Damn, that feels like forever ago,” Shiro says, from beside Thace. “Time sure does fly.” Lance gets shook all over again – he is on a Galra planet, riding in a car with Takashi Shirogane, who is making casual conversation in a light and joking tone. _I’m so happy to be alive._

The palace turns out to be a massive, jagged structure, as intimidating as it is beautiful. In some ways, it’s obvious that things around here aren’t business as usual. Most of the personnel Lance sees look more military than anything else, and a tense, eerie quietness seems to lurk behind every conversation, as if the palace is holding its breath until it knows for certain if this faction can definitively defend its claim.

Still, within their own little group, spirits are high. Pidge is babbling to Ilun, whose face is starting to assume the long-suffering look of a person questioning the wisdom of engaging with a tiny alien. Hunk is practically bouncing with excitement at the prospect of trying elusive Galra cuisine. Shiro and Thace pull ahead with their long strides, leading the way – and, Lance suspects, giving him and Keith a bit of personal space. He can’t blame them. The vibes they’re exuding must be _sickeningly_ cute.

It’s funny, Lance thinks, glancing over at Keith and feeling adoration bloom through him all over again. Now that they’re back together, they’ve shifted back into one another’s orbit as naturally as if they’d never been apart.

Headed for wherever the food is, they follow Thace and Shiro through a long hallway, occasionally passing Blades on guard or serving staff on duty. Lance gazes up at the beautiful engravings of fruits and vines, the dramatic arches. A strange and sentimental thought takes root in him: if Keith had been raised into his Galra heritage, he may very well have spent part of his childhood here. Even now, according to old Galra custom, he should have inherited the throne.

“Does it ever bother you?” Lance asks, without thinking.

“Does what bother me?”

“Well … the monarchy’s dead and all that, but technically you’re royalty.” He lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “This castle could have been yours.”

Keith shrugs. “No, not really. It’s not something I ever _knew_ could have been mine. Not something I ever … expected.” He pauses for a moment before speaking up again. “Besides, what we’re born to isn’t always what we really want.”

The words sink into Lance’s heart, thudding beneath his silk dress shirt.

“No. I guess not.”

* * *

 

**Several Months Later**

Hunk can admit he’ll miss the markets, when he goes back to his old life. Wandering among the stalls, breathing in the smell of cheap oil and delectable local specialties, peering at endless alien ingredients piled in baskets and stacked in crates … He needs a second spaceship just to fit all the free samples he wants to pick up. His left hand is already full of paper bags.

He spots Lance, finally, over by a barbecue stand, talking to a slim alien with a wide, effeminate face. Lance’s eyes must be watering from the thick smoke rising off the grill, but his relaxed stance betrays nothing but comfort, hands deep in the pockets of his long duster coat.

“The name’s Lance, by the way,” Hunk hears Lance tell the alien, who trills it back at him in a high voice. “Yeah, exactly!” His face melts into a grin, and that alien’s wearing a blush if Hunk ever saw one. Lance seems oblivious, though.

_If I didn’t have my last name or my_ mad cash yo _, I don’t think any girls would like me._ Lance’s endless griping is still clear as day in Hunk’s memory. No number of reassurances had ever managed to convince him otherwise.

This cute alien clearly couldn’t care less if his last name was Álvarez or McClain or Zarkon the Elder. Hunk raises his eyebrows, but decides to keep the thought to himself.

Lance hands over a couple coins for some of the yakitori-looking skewers on the alien’s grill, then spots Hunk and jogs over to him as he approaches.

“Here. Got enough for both of us,” Lance says, handing one to Hunk and taking a bite out of the other. “Tastes like chicken.”

Hunk rolls his eyes, slings an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. Still skinny, but broader, firmer. He tries the skewer – it’s chewy, and actually tastes more like swordfish, but he’ll let this one slide.

His throat is tight as he swallows the meat. He needs to break the news of his decision to Lance. _He won’t take it badly,_ Hunk tells himself. _We’re friends._ But he can’t help his nervous disposition.

It’s been good times, Hunk won’t deny that. In retrospect, he’s incredibly glad Kaltenecker didn’t stay in the garage. He and Pidge designed something fantastic. Lance has always been the gas to Hunk’s brakes, and he’s lucky to have a friend who reminds him that sometimes, to get anywhere, you have to stop standing still.

He’s majorly chilled out, too. Maybe that’s because Lance’s whole operation seemed tailored to getting Hunk so worked up so often that his body began to think being queasy was an unnecessary waste of energy, but still. Good times.

Pidge left their party a month or so back. They said they didn’t mind being a comms officer, but ultimately they were created to work in a lab or a cubicle, surrounded by other brains. The rift torn in the Holt family by the divorce has scabbed over and been covered by fresh and tender skin, and they decided to go back and spend a while working with Sam and Matt at their university lab.

Hunk, still riding the high of being his new, chiller self and not wanting to leave his beautiful ship or his best friend, has stuck with it this far, but he’s beginning to tire of being constantly on the move. _Guess I’m getting old._

“Lance …” Hunk says, grease from the skewer trickling onto his fingers. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

Lance’s blue eyes are bright, vibrant. A stab of nostalgia gets Hunk between the ribs – this straight-backed boy has a genuine confidence that Hunk so badly wanted for him, all the times he held him as he cried.

“Can we, like, go somewhere and sit down first?”

Lance nods, wiping his fingers clean on a napkin. They leave the bustling market, and go down to the nearby harbor – an _actual_ harbor, not a space-port, with boats at rest like sleeping livestock. The slate-grey water reflects bright holographic signs in a shattered oil-slick rainbow. The scent of salt reaches Hunk’s nostrils, clearing his head of the smells of a million different street foods.

Lance and Hunk sit down on an empty bench. For a moment, they’re enveloped by the pleasant silence of being beside someone who’s lived with you through space and time and still, for some reason, thinks you’re worth putting up with. Then, Hunk speaks up.

“So, dude, don’t get me wrong – this has been great.”

Lance raises his eyebrows. “I smell a _but_ here,” he says, then sniggers to himself at the childish ambiguity.

“Heh.” Hunk suppresses his grin and takes a deep breath. “ _But_ , to get to the point: I don’t think I can do this for much longer.” The words are out. He chews his lip for a second, then forces himself to keep talking. “I miss vidding. And I miss … you know, having an _address_. Staying in one place.”

To his credit, Lance doesn’t look surprised. Just nods, slowly, once, twice. “Yeah, man. I get it. Kind of had a feeling.”

“Yeah?” That’s a relief, somehow. Hunk’s stomach lightens, like a helium balloon drifting skyward.

“Yeah. So, you got a plan?”

_That easy, huh?_ There was a younger Lance who would have wheedled and nagged, guilting Hunk into staying by his side. Hunk sometimes suspects Lance used to see him as the sidekick half of their friendship equation, but he put up with it, knowing his friend truly didn’t mean any harm.

He likes this version better, though. _Growing up suits you, man._

“Yeah. I’m thinking of heading back. Get into my vidding again, properly this time. Maybe … well, Shay and I have been talking about collaborating.” The stuff he’s been able to do out here has been cool, but he misses his setup, misses the events, the mingling, the troves of free snacks.

Lance nods. “I get it. Like … that’s what makes you happy.” His shoulders creep up around his ears. “You know I’ll miss you, though.”

“Aw, Lance, don’t do this,” Hunk wails, teary lump building in his chest and throat. “I’ll miss you too, dude.”

“Hunk, _chill_ , you big baby. I mean, this has been fun, right? So win-win.”

Hunk sniffles, determined not to actually cry and make this any worse than it has to be. “Aside from the multiple times you almost got yourself killed? Yeah, mostly it was fun.”

A cheeky smile pulls at Lance’s lips. “Speaking of, do you remember that time in the Rebus System?”

“With the cute but very unfriendly space dogs?”

“Yeah, them!”

And there they go. They’re _reminiscing_. When did they get old enough to reminisce?

The simultaneous recall is a way to postpone separation. Hunk belly-laughs as they remind one another of the time they lost Kaltenecker. It wasn’t long after Lance had reunited with Keith – they’d been on a mission and pulled in for landing on a dwarf planet that, in retrospect, was shady as hell. When they came out of the inn in the morning, the ship was missing, as were Rolo and Nyma, the friendly couple who had bought them drinks the night before.

Asking the Álvarezes for any kind of help was out of the question. All they’d do was bring Lance back home, pull back their corporate sanctions for what he was doing, and with it any authority he may have had. So they found themselves virtually stranded in deep space. It was up to them to get themselves out of this.

“It was lucky we had that fancy watch of yours.”

“God, I know.” Lance groans, drags a hand down his face. “It just … sucks to feel like I owe him one.”

“Maybe. Still, I never thought I’d be _glad_ you’re ridiculously sentimental about objectively shitty guys.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

They lived off money from Prince Lotor’s watch, sold off piece by priceless piece. It had kept enough sand in their hourglass for it to continue trickling. Some of the materials in that watch were hard to get ahold of even for the industry. Scaultrite studding an accessory like mere rhinestones, just for _decoration_ … it was pretty much unthinkable. Yet there it had been, in a slim box in Lance’s shuttle, parked in the inn’s garage. Never worn, only kept – Hunk figured it was best not to ask about it – it became their way out of a financial bind. One piece at a time, it bought them food and lodging and passage on ships. As they learned the worth of what they had, and Lance and Hunk proved themselves a pair of exceptional hagglers, they managed to stretch the profits out thin.

While they were on the road, they would help out the people whose ships they rode on, moving back toward central space while trying to save up for a new rig of their own. Pidge began to gain a reputation as a programmer, coming up with brilliant fixes for the often patchy bootleg systems so prevalent out here. Hunk could do engineering and repairs. Lance was a pilot, an entertainer, and everything in between.

And then, one day, the impossible happened. During a quick stop in a pirates’ port with some freighters they’d joined up with, they found their own fucking ship.

Kaltenecker was _there_ , under the control of some random crew busy getting wasted while planetside. Rolo and Nyma were nowhere to be seen.

After a bit of finger-pointing and hissed curses, and a lot of Hunk holding Lance back from throwing himself into a situation he wouldn’t be able to handle, things panned out in an unexpected way.

It turned out it would be up to Hunk to get his baby back.

How? Poker, obviously.

It was too much. As some sort of trauma-related coping method, Hunk’s life-long need to puke at the merest sign of distress simply evaporated.

Still, once he was seated at the table, surrounded by hard-faced aliens with a taste for taking risks, his hands got so sweaty that he nearly dropped his cards.

Luckily, he wasn’t in this alone. Hunk had been right about Pidge. They are absolutely a gambling prodigy, a wizard with the odds – but more than that, a cheater entirely without shame.

_They were cheating too, guys. If I hadn’t played the game right back, we’d have lost,_ Pidge said afterward, with almost terrifying matter-of-factness, as the three of them walked away with the keys to their ship back in Hunk’s pocket.

Even back on Kaltenecker, though, things never quite went back to the way they used to be. Running smaller errands and helping out other crews appealed to all of them, and so, on the side of their bigger company jobs, they kept at it. Before long, the jack-of-all-trades business more or less eclipsed the formal work, and Lance started wearing his duster and loose pants more often than his suits. Around the time Pidge left, Lance contacted his parents and announced that he was now satisfied with the work he had done for the company, but that he wouldn’t be coming home for a while.

They’ve stayed on the road ever since.

Part of Hunk had always sensed it – what Lance ultimately wanted was a way out. Cleaning up the Álvarez outposts was a first step into the water, but Lance wasn’t able to swim into the open ocean until he severed the corporate anchors tied to his ankles.

He’s finally written his own definition.

And it’s time for Hunk to do the same.

He glances over at Lance’s profile. The breeze off the water plays through his bangs.

“So … is this weird, dude? Anything else you wanna clear up?”

“Nah. I don’t think it’s weird.”

“Cool.” Hunk squeezes his hands together, relaxes them again. “Thanks for everything. Really.”

“Yeah. You call me any time, y’hear?”

“I hear.”

Hunk pulls Lance into a firm hug. His lean body has widened, hardened – it has more substance now, somehow, and not just in terms of mass. The smell of him, though, is the same as it’s always been. Familiar, comforting, home.

“I love you, man. Thanks for understanding.”

“You too, buddy.”

Hunk smiles. It’s true, there was a time when he’d have done his damnedest to talk Lance out of staying on the road, but now …

_I suppose I’ve changed too._

“You sure you don’t want to come with me on the way, though? Just to see me off? Maybe see your family, and Pidge … and Keith?”

The breath hisses out of Lance, a long, slow stream of tension. “I dunno … there’s a lot to do out here.”

Hunk is aware that he sometimes dips too many fingers in the honey pot, but when his best friend is being a stubborn idiot, it’s best to do a bit of stirring. “Don’t you miss him?”

“Of course I miss him.” Pause, and Hunk waits, watching the emotions bubbling under Lance’s skin. “I guess I’m just … you know, he’s a _councilman_ now. And I’m … I don’t know, Hunk. I’m kinda scared. What if we’ve both changed?”

“You’re overthinking this. He’s Keith, dude. You talk to him every week.” Hunk rests one palm on Lance’s back. “And things were fine the last time you saw each other.”

“I guess.” Lance’s long fingers tap a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Unthinkingly, his other hand comes up to touch the goggles hanging around his neck – a gift from Keith that he almost always keeps on him. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, a little bit. You guys are so crazy about each other. It’s like, so obvious I need to look away.”

The laugh that slips out of Lance is as soft as the expression that settles onto his face. “You’re right.”

“I know.” Hunk gives Lance a firm thump on the back. “No matter what you wanna do next, we’ll see each other again soon, okay?”

Lance turns to face Hunk fully, and grins, broad and genuine. “Yeah. For sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about that abrupt time jump. it's something i'd have liked to put in two separate chapters, but they would have been a bit too short. ;u;
> 
> inb4 "but what DID happen to lotor????": please, my sweet summer children. whomstdve do u think i am?  
> find the answer to this and, hopefully, every other question very, very soon. (no, i mean it. as promised, the whole fic is done already. stay tuned!!!)
> 
> [tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/)


	15. Vermilion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come full circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: when i was originally planning this fic waaay back in january '17, i considered naming the whole thing vermilion. but i wanted to try out themed chapter titles, and so i decided to save this most beautiful color name for the end. more than a year later, here we finally are. thank you so much for making it this far ;-;
> 
> some relevant music:  
> just one of those things - jamie cullum  
> fly me to the moon - frank sinatra
> 
> last one, guys. hope you enjoy <3

He’s followed rumors – picked one up from an Olkari in a far-off marketplace – and now, finally, he’s here.

Lance came to the large asteroid alone, spent the first part of his evening exploring its little town before setting off on his actual mission. Now he’s here, winding his way through a tangle of tiny streets. He spots the narrow alleyway matching the description he was given, boots thudding on dark pavement. _This is shady as hell already._

Wrapping his long coat tightly around himself, hyperaware of the locations of both his pistols, Lance steals down the little side-street and stops in front of an unremarkable door.

He sucks in a deep breath of artificial air. Pushes the door open.

In the small hallway, a counter. The golden light of a single crystal chandelier falls on the person standing behind it: an alien with no eyes. He almost jumps when she turns her blank face toward him. Tiny nubs, almost like cat ears, peek out from behind her hood.

“Uh, hi?”

She gestures for him to take off his coat, steps out from behind the counter to lift it out of his hands. Her feet are broad, two-pronged. Behind her, a thick tail sways slowly from side to side. Around her neck is a choker of deep red gems, like blood beading, glittering ominously in the chandelier’s light.

As Lance hands her the garment, he’s overcome by the oddest sensation – a prickling at the edge of his mind, like a word on the tip of his tongue, half-remembered. Tendrils of ice snake through his veins. The alien’s empty face, the spot where her eyes should be, is trained directly on him.

His heart beats, and beats.

Finally, she stashes Lance’s coat away in the closet and gestures to the next door. The prickling retreats, leaving behind an aftertaste of amusement, like the sound of laughter from another room.

Lance enters the establishment proper.

The place is much bigger on the inside than he expected. A soft din envelops him, ebbing and flowing as he pushes past tables. Soft voices chatting, the clear high tone of ice hitting glass, music drifting from hidden speakers. Business is still slow. It’s early, most of the tables empty, only a couple of parties scattered about.

Glowing strips – pulsing purples, molten oranges – plunge down the walls and across the floor, snaking under Lance’s feet. Backlit aquaria, filled with creatures unknown to human seas, cast rippling shadows onto faces and furniture. Despite the modernity of the sleek lines and touchpad menus set into every table, there is something classical about the vibe. The music is instrumental, not electronic, and the few guests hold themselves with refinement.

Lance casts his eyes around until they land on the bar: a smooth ellipse in the very center, ringed by tall black stools, liquor bottles glittering in low-hanging shelves above it.

And there, behind the counter—

—purple lighting glints off silver hair and silver chrome.

Lance’s heart stutters to a stop. Restarts.

His legs are jelly, suddenly, from the wave of relief washing over him.

_Alive._

_You stubborn fuck._

He walks up to the bar, breath caught in his throat, waiting for the bartender to notice him.

The tall man turns, and in that smooth accent, he asks, “What can I get you?”

Then his golden eyes widen, catlike pupils narrowing to slits.

Giddy laughter rises up in Lance.

“Surprise me,” he says, and Lotor’s mouth curves into an incredulous grin, exposing pointed fangs.

Lance perches on one of the sleek black barstools, leaving an empty seat between himself and a massive alien in an evening dress. He’s glad he at least slicked his hair back, even if he’s dressed down.

It’s been so many months, and unfathomable distances, and somehow the awkwardness has melted away. Right now Lance has no resentment left.

Lotor seems to have been through enough to feel the same. Lance can’t stop staring at the prosthetic. Losing your arm and your claim to a kingdom must put a breakup with an ex-something into perspective.

Propping his elbow on the counter, Lance says, “So, bartending, huh? Never saw you takin’ that up.”

Lotor brushes a speck off his dark waistcoat with his flesh hand, reaches for a bottle with the mechanical one. “Trust me. Neither did I.”

Lance rests his chin in his hand and watches Lotor pour his drink, taking in – appreciatively, he admits – the forearms exposed by rolled-up black sleeves. Servos, pistons, whatever makes that bionic right hand move, do their jobs smoothly and entirely in silence. Manicured nails and delicate veins may have been replaced by gleaming metal, but the calibrated movements are still all Lotor.

Something about him seems different, though, and it’s not just the brand new arm. The way he moves has become solid, grounded. Lance no longer gets that eerie impression of otherworldliness and mercury, of a being who is here only to slip away.

Lotor has become tangible.

A thin crystal flute _clicks_ against the counter as Lotor sets it down in front of Lance.

“Strawberry champagne. Best in the house.”

“Expensive?”

“Oh, very.”

Lance sips the champagne. Fizz bursts against his palate, sweetness lingering on his lips. Delicious.

His eyes have never left the bionic arm. It can’t _not_ come up. “So, uh, that’s …”

“Something I’d rather not talk about, thanks for asking,” Lotor shuts him down swiftly, but the quirk of his eyebrows is almost playful.

“Sorry.”

Lotor shakes his head, ponytail brushing back and forth over his shoulders with the motion. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say it was, ah … a rather sobering experience.” When Lance frowns, the slightest smile touches Lotor’s lips. “I find that these days, I prefer staying on this side of the bar.”

 _Is he saying what I think he’s saying?_ “You mean …”

“I mean I’m clean, Lance.”

Lance’s throat tightens with emotion, his stomach with raw contradictory ache. Some deep part of him twinges with disappointment at knowing his role as support, as solace, is forever played out. But what bleeds through his whole body and softens his heart is a sweet and vibrant pride.

“Glad to hear it,” he manages, keeping his eyes dry with sheer willpower.

Lotor tosses him a crooked grin. _God_ , his eyes are so bright. _If I’d met him when he was this way …_ “Mm. Couldn’t quite give up the scene, though.”

Lance laughs. “I can see that. This place sure is sweet.”

“Oh, I completely agree.”

Suddenly, bright specks blink to life on the far end of the bar. Lance startles as a black cat melts out of the dark surface. It stretches its lithe spine and settles back down, a purring patch of void. It’s bigger than an Earth cat, its fur shaggier, but the way it _mrrp_ s and demonstratively ignores all of its surroundings is singularly feline.

“You even got a mascot.”

“Of sorts. That’s Kova. Don’t try to pet her unless you want your arm to end up like mine.”

Lance notices his own laughter rapidly turning into giggles as the champagne starts to rise into his head.

Heavy boots thud against the floor, alerting Lance to someone approaching behind him, slipping into the empty space to his left.

“Somethin’ strong, please,” says a woman’s voice.

He glances to the side, vision filling with hulking shoulders, massive arms. Her powerful body is shelled in dark armor. On her head are two large bat-like ears, their pink shells covered in soft-looking purplish fur. She’s got a cut jaw, big hands – built like a tank.

Lance swallows. He is loyal to his boyfriend, but he isn’t, you know, _blind_.

“Zethrid, I thought we agreed you’d use the back door,” Lotor says, reasonable tone tinged with exasperation.

“Relax, sweetcheeks,” Zethrid grins – and those are definitely holsters on her muscular thighs. “Business hasn’t even gotten going. Who’s this fresh piece of meat?” Her eyes – golden, like Lotor’s – fall on Lance, who experiences a sensation like a drop of icy water trickling down his spine. “You a bit out of your depth?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m a very strong swimmer,” says Lance, managing a wink. She barely spares him a glance before turning back to Lotor.

“You got anything savory for a girl to snack on?”

“What about some common sense?” Lotor deadpans – but there’s a fondness there, too. He sets a bowl of … space olives? … on the bar in front of Zethrid, who takes off one charcoal glove and picks one of the fruits up between her claws. She pops it into her mouth, then turns her bright gaze back on Lance.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Oh. He’s staring. “Really?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes. It feels as much like a punctuation mark as anything ever can.

Lance goes back to watching Lotor, ignoring the way Zethrid’s ultimate disdain has left him weirdly aroused. Lotor pours a few fingers of a spirit so thick Lance suspects it could be used to power a spaceship, and hands the glass to Zethrid. She downs it in a single gulp, jerks her chin at Lotor, and swaggers off.

“Damn,” says Lance, looking after her.

“Don’t encourage her, please.” Lotor heaves a long-suffering sigh. Lance’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and the corner of Lotor’s lips quirks. Then his eyes drop to Lance’s wrist – his elbow is propped on the bar, and his cuff has inched downward, exposing it. “You got a new watch.”

“Yeah.” Lance automatically begins to bring his arm down, forces himself not to. “Uh, honestly? The watch you gave me saved all our lives. So thank you for that.”

“Saved your _lives_?” Lotor leans closer, eyebrows rising with genuine interest.

“Uh-huh.” Self-conscious suddenly, Lance tucks his hair behind his ear. “Might have, um, pawned it off. In a tight spot.”

“Ah. Well … good timing, I suppose.”

“No way. You did not just say that on purpose.”

Lotor grins, showing those fangs again, and Lance chuckles despite himself.

The edge in their voices, Lotor leaning on the bar, Lance inching closer and tracing the rim of his glass with one lazy fingertip … it’s performance, all of it. Both of them playing out a familiar role, but all the passion has gone missing.

_We don’t need each other anymore._

Lance smiles at Lotor, across the bar. Probably softer than he intended, because Lotor’s golden eyes crinkle up in response.

Closure settles over them like a blanket of fresh snow.

“Another drink?” says Lotor, his own voice smooth as brandy over ice.

“Fill me up,” says Lance, automatically, and Lotor snorts. But he pours Lance a fresh flute of sweet champagne.

As Lance takes a sip, another woman appears from the other side of the venue, pacing over to the bar. Lance leans to the side for a better look, as Lotor turns away from him to face her. She is beautiful in a classical way, with powder-blue skin and tapered ears: like Lotor, she is Galra ferocity poured into a delicate mould. The black-and-white suit, the neatly-parted purple hair… everything about her oozes professionalism.

When she speaks, her voice is crisp as new white paper. “Lotor, I got the intel you wanted—”

“Thank you, Acxa,” he says quietly, in a tone that translates to _hush_. “Perhaps we can discuss this afterward.”

Her gaze meets Lotor’s in a flash of silent understanding. “All right. Come find me later.”

“I will.”

She nods, holds his gaze. Lance senses something there, a private world in the space between their eyes, and smiles to himself. Looks like Lotor’s found home.

“ _Intel_ , huh?” Lance says, after Acxa leaves, regarding Lotor over the rim of his glass. “Running a bar seems like hard work.”

Lotor hums, a noncommittal sound of amusement. _Something’s_ going on behind the scenes here, but Lance suspects that the sooner he accepts he’ll never know exactly what, the better.

“I’ll pay for that drink now,” he continues, half-expecting Lotor to offer it to him on the house. He does not, only smiles pleasantly. _Guess he really is over me._

Lance fishes a couple universal standard coins out of his pocket. This is the kind of place that takes cash, catering to people who don’t want to be tracked, and Lance has discovered that he enjoys being hard to trace.

“Here you go.” He hands the money over, eyes resting on Lotor’s for a few long seconds. “Squeaky clean.”

Lotor doesn’t bat an eyelash at Lance’s implication, just counts out change and drops it into a little coin tray that he pushes across the bar. Lance pockets the money.

Small, warm hands land on his shoulders, and his eyes widen as a soft body presses into him from behind. “Hi, cutie.”

He turns in his stool, and finds himself staring into the turquoise pools at the center of big yellow eyes.

The girl playfully hikes her shoulders up around her pointed ears, drops them back down. Her skin is a vivid red, a yellow vee diving down between her eyebrows, flanked by purple triangles curving along her temples. A long appendage, banded with bright colors, extends from the top of her head and falls down her back in a way resembling a ponytail. Her jackknife-slim figure is sheathed in – what else? – a little black dress.

She blinks, eyelids shimmering with dewy makeup. “Haven’t seen _you_ here before.”

“I’m, um …” Lance tries to figure out a quick way to summarize his relationship with Lotor, wonders if he should just skip over it and describe himself as a _guest_ , but the intense gold-and-blue gaze has him pinned.

Lotor’s sharp voice snaps him out of it. “Ezor, lay off him, please.”

“You just want all the pretty ones to yourself, Lotor,” she pouts, leaning out of Lance’s personal space, but keeping her hand on his arm.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?”

She sighs with drawn-out exasperation. “Man, you are _such_ a stick-in-the-mud.”

How many of these girls _are_ there? Trust Lotor to surround himself with babes. Part of Lance rolls his eyes, remembering the women at the clubs who couldn’t get enough of Lotor, and his own smugness at being preferred.

Whatever this is, though, it has all the hallmarks of an upgraded version. Somehow, Lance gets the feeling these women listen to Lotor more out of convenience than obligation.

“You a regular?” Lance asks her, ignoring Lotor’s daggers-glare that mirrors the _don’t encourage her_ from earlier.

“Kind of,” she chirps. “I’m Ezor. I sing here.”

“Wow. On your own? Or is there a band?”

“Sometimes a band. Sometimes just the piano.”

Lance perks up at that. “There’s a piano?”

She giggles, winks. “Sure is, doll.”

He crosses one long leg over the other, slanting her a knowing glance. “I play, you know.”

“Really? You wanna play with me?” Ezor bats long eyelashes, squeezes Lance’s bicep. There’s an unexpected strength in her slim fingers.

“Ezor isn’t on until _later_ ,” Lotor interrupts, warningly. Ezor just giggles, shimmying her narrow hips under the sequined dress.

“Fine. _Later_ , then. I’ll see you, I hope.” The last part is directed at Lance, who tips his head to her, and winks. She walks off, her leggy strides reminding Lance of a gazelle, if a gazelle could saunter.

Lotor sighs, shaking his head slowly. Lance turns back to him, gives him a long, level look. “Hey, don’t look so down, man. It could be a _lot_ worse.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea.”

He taps his fingers pensively on the counter. “Is there really a piano?”

Lotor tilts his head diagonally backward. Following the direction of his gesture, Lance spots the instrument, nestled in the venue’s far corner. It’s black, glossy, classically handsome.

It’s been a while since he last tickled any ivories. He does get to play in smaller establishments from time to time, but he still feels his bones aching for music.

“Um … would you mind if I play?” he asks Lotor, as a sudden realization dawns on him. “I don’t think you ever heard me perform.”

“Well, I’d love to.” Lotor’s smile is gentle, reaching his clear, bright eyes. “Go right ahead.”

They exchange a last, lingering look, before Lance jumps off his stool and walks over to the instrument. He sits down on the hard stool, caresses the lid in a gentle greeting before he opens it.

Over at the bar, Lotor adjusts something on a panel above him, and the music from the speakers fades out. A few curious patrons turn their heads to look.

Lance inhales sweet smoky air, hands hovering over the keys. Around him, the room vibrates with anticipation.

He lets his fingers fall.

 

* * *

 

The guard who pages Keith’s intercom is a fresh recruit. That peculiar newbie blend of ambition and obedience leaks from every pore of her young Galra face.

“Sir, there’s … um, there’s someone who says he’s here to see you.”

The skepticism in her expression can really only mean one thing. Keith grins, fights not to show it.

“Oh? Did he say who he is?”

“He’s – I apologize, sir, but he looks like a common space pirate.”

“Wearing a filthy coat?”

“Well …” Hesitant, as if she’s scared of saying the wrong thing, the soldier takes a moment to consider. Grudgingly, she admits, “Yes.”

“That’s _my_ dirty space pirate,” Keith replies, struggling not to chuckle at the look in the baby Marmoran’s golden eyes. “Let him in.”

Keith gets up from his desk, pointed shoes sinking into the thick carpet. A fucking desk job. Knowing himself, he’s not going to be able to put up with this forever. But at least in this office, he can be alone. Arguing with Kolivan, Sendak, and the others at the long conference table exhausts him to the point where he wishes they had another stronghold to infiltrate, so that he could hit something instead of having to _negotiate_ all day. _Negotiating_ has a special ability to make him feel helplessly frustrated, like he’s swinging his sword through empty air.

He smooths his hands down the front of his slim-cut white suit, rolls his stiff shoulders. Excitement and nervousness twine together in his belly, a dance of contradiction. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he taps out a quick text message before continuing on his way.

**To: Hunk  
he’s here :)**

He takes the swift private elevator down to the lobby. His office is in the Green Wing of the Castle of Lions, in a towering hypermodern space shared with multitudes of other managements, representatives, and corporations – some savory, others less so.

Keith likes being stationed here. He’s one of the Galra representatives closer to the center of civilized space: showing the world that Galra society is opening up, becoming more inclusive. Sometimes he feels like a token, an exotic curiosity – but he reminds himself to view his differences as a strength. He still thinks his distinctly human features make the others uncomfortable at times – to them, he’s the one who’s alien, and his was the strange face broadcast across the capital on that fateful day. The reminder is a bit much, for some Galra. Keith doesn’t mind keeping his distance from all of that.

Besides, this way, he’s closer to what part of him still considers home – the Kogane station. Keeping an eye on what’s going on over on _her_ end is a job he’s reluctant to cede to anyone else, knowing as well as he does the intricacies of her cunning mind.

He steps out into Green’s vast lobby, with its high ceiling and wood paneling and immaculately trimmed plants. Even the fucking waterfalls – everything to maintain the illusion that they’re in a place of life, and not a tin can floating through the vastness of empty space.

And there he is.

Even though he knew he would be here, Keith is never fully prepared for Lance.

Covered in that long, dusty coat, tapping the toe of one boot on the floor, head tilted back to examine something high above him. On his forehead, as always, perch the old brass goggles on their blue elastic band.

Maybe Keith’s heightened Galra senses are partly to blame. He senses pulse and breath, the warm flickers beneath the surface of the skin, those things that are inaccessible over a distance.

Keith’s heart is all ache.

“Lance,” Keith calls, and he turns, flashing a grin so dazzlingly white against the brown of his skin.

A life on the road has widened Lance’s shoulders, angled his stance. The shape of him is so familiar, and still it surprises Keith every time – the immediacy of the flesh that’s absent over hololink. “Hey, Kogane. Am I back on the list of desirables?”

“I took you off it?” Keith’s eyes drag up Lance’s body, and the bright laughter that results from that reduces his insides to a quivering mess.

“I’d hug you, but I don’t want to get grease on your pretty white su—”

And Keith, a whirlwind in a half-human body, is there all at once. His arms wrap around Lance, gripping him tight as a steel vice. He breathes in the oil and dust of the road, the sweat on Lance’s skin only a film over the sweetness that’s so uniquely his.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi, cowboy. ’M home.”

“Shouldn’t I be calling you that by now?”

Keith keeps Lance clenched unrelentingly close until his face stops doing that stupid wobbly bullshit. Once it’s safe, he releases his grip, and looks his wayward partner in his handsome face.

A deeper tan, and an adult angularity, but the smile is the same, as is the sparkle in those dark blue eyes. Keith runs his knuckles down Lance’s jaw, scraping over stubble.

“You look good.”

“I know. Likewise. Can a guy get a shower and a shave?”

“Sure. There’s someone else who wants to see you first, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

The doors of the public elevator glide open, and a broad-shouldered silhouette steps out. _Perfect timing._ Classic Hunk.

“Hunk!” Lance crows, and he’s across the room in a flash – a lithe projectile launching himself into his best friend’s arms.

Hunk’s face is all grin as he laughs his charming belly-laugh, wrapping Lance in one of his trademark hugs.

Lance’s voice, muffled against Hunk’s chest, says something that sounds like, “Dude, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too, man.”

Keith’s mouth starts curling into shapes it isn’t used to. He gives them a moment, turns away to collect himself.

Shiro’s been away for long periods at a time, helping the new Galra government contain the rebellions and uprisings that still proliferate. The far reaches of space that Zarkon had already managed to conquer need to be liberated, and Shiro has the skill and strength and heart to do it. His experience and expertise are too valuable to waste. Keith knows that.

Still, his ribcage seems to shrink in his chest at all of the small absences. The crunch of his knuckles against Shiro’s sternum in the training gym, the wry jokes, the easy way they existed around one another.

Even his fucking cigarettes.

Keith swallows twice. Breathes in, tries to dissolve the lump in his stomach.

To Keith’s side, Lance and Hunk have disentangled, a flush of joy still high in Lance’s face. His cheeks nudge his eyes up into little crescents.

“Hope you’ll come see the show later,” Hunk says, and Lance nods with an enthusiasm that nearly flings his head from his shoulders.

“Of course!”

Hunk waves to Lance as he heads off in the direction of the Yellow Wing. Lance rocks his weight back and forth between his heels and the balls of his feet, nearly bursting with excitement.

“How’d he know I was here? I showed up unannounced.”

“I told him.”

“Oh really? You two all buddy-buddy now?”

“We hang out sometimes,” Keith says lightly, and Lance bites his lip as if trying to hold in his smile, failing spectacularly.

“You done with work, or should I go wait up for you?”

Keith shrugs. “I’ll clear my schedule. Shall we?”

They wander out of the Green Wing until they reach the main hall, the crystal eyes of the five massive lion heads watching over them as impassively as ever. Lance reaches out and grasps Keith’s hand, and Keith squeezes back, that gentle sensation of pulse on pulse warming him to the core.

“So how’s your gallivanting going?” Keith asks. Now that Lance is back, it’s like he’s never been away, but he reminds himself there are months of Lance’s life he hasn’t been privy to. They’re both so busy they barely have time to call.

“Is this what happens when you work a desk job? You start using words like _gallivanting_?” Lance rolls his eyes, but it’s good-natured. “I’m just fine, thanks. I’m building a sweet reputation, you know? Kinda moving in and out of crews, doing odd jobs.”

“Legal?”

“Mostly.” Lance shrugs. “No different than corporate biz, when you get down to it.”

“You ever run into shit, for being ex-corporate?”

“Let’s be real for a second – my brand was never as strong as I believed, outta socialite circles. Out in deep space, you can be anyone.” He grins. “I’ve rebranded, baby. These days, it’s just Lance.”

Keith smiles, despite himself, and nudges Lance with his elbow. “Well, I like Lance.”

Lance hums, pleased. “How have things been on your end, Councilman Kogane?”

The title makes him cringe a little. “Honestly? A pain in the ass.”

“Blunt as always. Does that work for you in politics?” Keith shoots Lance a withering look, and Lance raises his free hand in a disarming gesture. “Whoa, okay, okay.”

Keith rolls his shoulders, tries not to succumb to the frown threatening to wrinkle his brow. “There’s a lot of shit going on. We’re negotiating about the Quintessence market.”

“The energy source from Galra space?”

“Yeah. It’s fucking awful. Junko – Madame – is trying to set up a deal. I have to make sure it doesn’t look like she’s getting any special favors, but she’s _sharp_ , and her proposals make a lot of sense.” A sigh of frustration escapes him. “She knew she’d be able to play me. You know, sometimes I wonder if she didn’t rig this whole thing from the start.”

“Damn. Even us?”

That makes him laugh. “To be fair, I don’t think even she could have seen _us_ coming. Wanna head upstairs?”

“Totally.”

They get into a gilded wonder of an elevator that whisks them up several stories, toward Keith’s suite near the top of the Castle.

One of the suite’s dimmable windows looks out over the bustling casino in Black. The other is open to the stars. Done up in charcoal and delicate off-white, the furniture is streamlined and slick, almost resembling spacecraft more than tables and chairs. After hanging his coat in the hallway, Lance throws himself back into one of the armchairs, crossing his long legs on the ottoman.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” Keith asks dryly.

“Mhmmm. Cold soda from the minibar, please.”

Obliging for once, Keith crouches down by the tiny fridge and retrieves a can. He lobs it at Lance’s head, half hoping it’ll hit him between the eyes. Of course, he grabs it flawlessly out of the air, popping the top with a carbonated _hiss_.

Keith sits down on the couch to the side of Lance, stretching his arms out over the backrest.

“Another thing …”

“Yeah?”

He swallows, the news still pricking at his insides with those mixed needles of relief and dread. “Zarkon died in prison.”

Cheeks still puffed out with soda, Lance’s eyes widen, bulging in his head. He forces himself to swallow, then exclaims, “ _What?_ He just _died_?”

“They found him in his cell with some very precise lacerations to the throat. The autopsy showed internal hemorrhaging as well.”

“Oh, shit. Not spontaneous, I take it.”

“Nope.”

“So – how the fuck did they get in?” Lance frowns, ponders. “Does Zarkon still have supporters who’d risk their lives to bust him out?”

“He does, and they have. Never made it through. The Blade’s guards caught them all.”

“But not these assassins.”

Keith shrugs in reply. Lance whistles. “Impressive. So they’re good.”

“Really fucking good. Barely left a trace. Our investigators figure it was probably a team effort – four, maybe five people. Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess.”

“Damn. And?”

“And, it’s been tough. Like you said, Zarkon has supporters. They were clamoring for a trial by battle – and now he’s found dead in jail. It looks bad for us. Even if we prove this wasn’t an inside job …”

“Some people are hard to convince.”

“I’ll say.”

“So, Zarkon is killed, and all at once, the old regime loses its figurehead, the new one its credibility. The question is, who’s winning?” Something seems to dawn on Lance as he says it, realization darkening his eyes. “Oh my god. That _bastard_.”

“What?”

The corners of Lance’s lips pull down into a deep frown. “I’m telling you this as my boyfriend, not as a Galra politician, okay?”

“Okay.”

“A while back, I ran into somebody I used to know. He’s very alive, very sharp, and has made some interesting new friends.”

Visions of blood, gore, and livid yellow eyes flash past Keith’s mind’s eye. All at once, the motive clicks into place. There are pieces missing, sure, but it makes _sense_. “Holy _fuck_.”

“Holy fuck indeed.” Lance gets up from the chair, plopping down beside Keith and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you, babe.”

“Yeah.” Keith leans into him, insides heavy with stress. “Ugh.”

Lance turns his head, brushing warm lips over Keith’s cheek. “You want a distraction?”

“Mmm,” Keith purrs. “Might be nice.”

“Yeah?” The lips ghost down Keith’s jaw, Lance’s breath tickling his skin. Keith reaches out, slides his hand up the inside of Lance’s thigh.

“Yeah. Hey … don’t you still need a shower?”

 

* * *

 

Later, the freshness of the shower long since soaked away by heat and sweat, Keith and Lance lie tangled together on the plush king-size bed.

“Stars, I’ve missed you so much,” Lance whispers into Keith’s hair.

“I missed you too,” Keith murmurs back. He tries to absorb every last modicum of heat from Lance’s body. He’s missed _this_ so much, too: being pressed up against someone he loves. It has him overcome with an uncharacteristic sentimentality. “You know … there’s a place for you here. Whenever you decide to stay.”

“I do know.” Lance smiles, soft and easy. “Man. I’m so fuckin’ _blessed_.”

Keith smiles too – against Lance’s chest, where he can’t see it, but it’s probably obvious from his voice. “No bad jokes?”

“Even I need to be sincere _some_ of the time,” Lance mumbles against Keith’s temple, breathing in the scent of him.

“I bet it gets exhausting being so hilarious.”

“Well, you bet on the jackpot. Ka-ching.”

“Nice. When do I get to collect my prize?”

Chuckling, Lance slides one callused hand up Keith’s belly. Keith makes a pleased noise, resting his own hand on top of it and lacing their fingers together.

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little soft?” Lance murmurs, teasing tilt to his lips. “Bureaucrat’s pudge?”

Keith ignores that. The last time he pumped iron was this morning, and he knows it shows. Battering his body is the only way he can quiet the stresses weighing on his mind. Instead of responding, he grabs hold of Lance’s upper arm, kneads his bicep. Lance was always lanky, but these past years have turned him into pure lean muscle. “Well, _you_ aren’t, that’s for sure.”

The ruddy flush seeping into Lance’s cheeks has Keith’s own mouth curving into a grin.

“When did you get so charming, babe?”

Keith pulls him in close, and their mouths press together, again and again – tongues pushing past lips, fingers tangling in hair. The smell of him, on his own skin and Keith’s skin and the sheets, envelops Keith on all sides. It’s as good now as it’s ever been, if not better. This heat that Keith’s missed so much … he melts into it, loses track of his own edges as he moves against Lance, as Lance’s hands slide down his back.

They pull back from kissing, noses brushing, sharing air. A familiar, half-dormant concern prickles awake inside of Keith, roused by Lance’s fresh proximity.

_I’m busy. He’s busy. Will we ever have a life together?_

If they ever get the chance – if they both slow down – would they actually enjoy the resulting relationship? Or would they be at one another’s throats in no time?

“Babe, you’re frowning.”

Keith blinks, smooths his tense brow. “Mm.”

Lance rubs soothing circles into his back. “Hey. Don’t stress out over nothing, ’kay? No need to be such a Hunk.”

Keith exhales, expelling his doubts with his breath. What happens, happens, and he trusts Lance – trusts himself, even – to get them through it. He shifts closer to Lance’s warm body, nudging one obnoxious leg in between Lance’s. Lance lifts his own leg to accommodate it, then drops it back down and squeezes Keith’s shin.

“Sorry. I’m just … anxious. Sitting around all day has me climbing the walls.”

“Figuratively, you mean?”

“Sadly, yeah.”

“So you miss the old days? Extorting people, looking scary on street corners, scaling people’s apartment buildings—”

“Shut _up_.” Keith rolls his eyes, shoving Lance in the chest before he can keep rambling. “Maybe we should get out of bed, before they think we’ve died in here.”

“Honestly?” Lance props himself on one elbow, the position stretching out his long, toned body. He looks fucking delectable. “Considering everything that’s happened, I’ll be offended if anyone thinks this is enough to kill us.”

“Fair,” says Keith, averting his gaze before he starts to agree that leaving the bed is a bad idea. “But come on, let’s haul ass. Hunk’s in charge of the entertainment tonight. I don’t think you want to miss it.”

 

* * *

 

They enter the Yellow Wing through the mouth of the lion, scimitar fangs glittering high above their heads. Strolling through sumptuously decorated hallways, they pass luxurious restaurants and food courts, until they reach a sparkling dining hall.

Chandeliers hang from the high mirrored ceiling, and cream-colored columns of a delicately marbled mineral prop up the room at regular intervals. At the entrance, Keith and Lance weave past mingling guests in elegant clothing – themselves freshly showered a second time, both dressed in fitted suits. Navy with a bright blue bow tie for Lance, dark grey shirt and jacket with a crimson tie for Keith.

They order drinks from Coran, who, as usual, is working the bar. Like the Castle itself, Coran seems to be a constant. His ginger mustache twitches with amusement as Keith and Lance approach, virtually joined at the hip. He doesn’t say anything besides a spirited _hi there, boys_ , but his eyes gleam as he pushes their glasses over the counter.

Keith swirls his customary whiskey around the bottom of its tumbler, coolly regarding the sunset-colored cocktail in Lance’s hand. “Really?”

“What?” Lance raises defiant eyebrows.

“You look like you should be drinking beer now. Or scotch. With your image and all.”

“Fuck my image, babycakes. Sex on the Beach is my drink until I die.” Lance sips it demonstratively, swallows and exhales with an _ahhh_.

They move on through the crowd. Among them, Keith glimpses Hunk’s girlfriend Shay, some other people he recognizes from working at the Castle, but most of them are strangers to him, here for a drink and a good time.

Finally, they make it to their reserved table right up front, near the stage. At the center of the tablecloth, a bottle of champagne is sweating in a bucket of ice. Conversation hums around them, voices melting into an unbroken, lively buzz.

The lights get low, the conversation quieting.  A smoky fog fills the bottom of the stage, and Hunk steps onto it. He is stunningly handsome in his plush velvet suit, thick dark hair slicked back from his forehead. His face is filling out again, Keith notices – he’d slimmed a bit from a life on the road, but he’s always been hugely, warmly _present_ , his easy amicability reaching every person in the room.

“I hope everyone’s having a wonderful night,” he says into the mic, voice enveloping the hall like a hug. Lance lets out a whoop, and Hunk’s eyes rest on him for a second, narrowing fondly before moving on through the crowd. “Joining me on stage is a very special guest and lovely friend of mine – Princess Allura of Altea.”

Allura steps out to enthused clapping and a few scattered cheers, her smile radiant as the moon. Keith swears he sees it reflected in Lance’s glassy eyes.

“Thank you for having me,” Allura says. Her evening dress hugs her body, shimmering like the night sky. Her silver hair cascades down her back in an arrangement of crystals and loose curls.

The two of them make lovely hosts, chatting and joking and warming up the crowd. Lance’s face is tilted rapturously up to watch his friends. Keith, for his part, finds himself watching Lance – as entertaining as Hunk and Allura are, Keith’s eyes are magnetized back to the shape of him, present and close.

Finally, Allura announces, “Before we let the real performers up on stage, we have a song for you all tonight. A classic, from Hunk’s home planet, Earth.”

“We sure do,” Hunk agrees amiably. “Band, please?”

From its spot at the back of the stage, the band starts up a heavy swing. Allura’s eyes meet Hunk’s, sparkling turquoise and warm brown, the gaze they exchange bright and intelligent.

“No way,” comes Lance’s voice, small and quivery – he sounds like a little boy. “This is too much. I’m only human.”

When Hunk and Allura begin to sing, their voices are like honey and fairy lights.

 _Fly me to the moon_  
_Let me play among the stars_  
 _Let me see what spring is like_  
 _On Jupiter and Mars …_

Allura’s delicate soprano wraps around Hunk’s full baritone. They start their rendition off gentle, soothing, but it’s not long before the production picks up and begins to burst with life – the sprightly melody of the piano, the bright brasses, and beneath it all the heartbeat pulse of the bass.

A grin creeps onto Keith’s face. They’re amazing – Hunk with his open body language and charming vibrato, made to entertain, and Allura ethereal as only an alien princess can be.

_In other words, please be true  
In other words, I love you_

It’s an old song, and a sweet one, and Keith feels it reach for his heart and give it a squeeze. _Looking into his eyes now would be way too cheesy._ Just as he’s thinking it, Lance, under the table, nudges his foot with the tip of his shoe. Lets it linger there, so that they never stop touching.

Keith ducks his head to hide a smile.

The performances carry on. There’s more music, some dancers, and a magician who wows the audience, although Keith can’t help but feel that his six arms give him a bit of an advantage.

As the evening wraps up, Hunk and Allura thank the crowd, link hands, and bow to thunderous applause. The lights come back on, but they’re dimmed and blue, setting the mood for the party to follow. Smartly dressed waiters begin to weave through the tables, offering refreshments on silver trays, as the band comes back onstage and starts up some ambient jazz.

“Hey,” Lance says to Keith, beneath the din of the crowd. D’you wanna get away?”

They exchange a look of mutual understanding and get up from the table, hands not quite brushing as they quietly sortie.

The plush corridor muffles their footsteps and voices, the hum of music trailing out from the doorway behind them and vibrating softly in the walls. Lance yawns, stretches his arms above his head, shoulders cracking.

“What do you wanna do next?

Keith shrugs. “I’m restless as all hell.”

Lance slants Keith a look. “You wanna go for a drive?”

 

* * *

 

Lance’s shuttle is small but swift, and he lets Keith pilot, so this date is already a win.

 _Didn’t you drink?_ Lance asked, as Keith blew into the nozzle to unlock the ship. _I had one glass of scotch and a Galra metabolism,_ Keith replied.

They zip through the stars, Keith reveling in wearing the comfortable clothes he’d changed into, in the dip and swerve of the machine responding to his commands. Just like old times.

“Where are we going?” Lance asks, jiggling his leg and tapping his fingers on his knee in time. Always moving, even sitting still.

“Dunno. You in a party mood?”

“Nah. Not up to it today. Actually, it’d be great if we didn’t have to see anyone else. Like, at all.”

“I gotcha. How about some sightseeing?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Keith expertly maneuvers them through asteroid fields as they cruise through the nearby system, gazing out at the eternally distant swathes of space dust and stars, at the strange auroras of shifting colors.

The sun at the center of the system glimmers coin-bright. They’re too close to see it, but planets dance in circles around it, caught in the embrace of its gravity.

One such planet rises up on their left, and Keith turns them for a better look. The angle changes as the ship evens back out, the heart-star disappearing behind its acolyte.

It’s obscured, but not for long.

“Hey, look,” Lance says, softly. “The sun’s rising.”

Keith brings their craft to a hover. Neither he nor Lance speak, nor do they look at one another. But then Lance’s hand is there, fingertips tracing a line down Keith’s forearm until they brush Keith’s palm.

Keith’s hand uncurls reflexively, like a flower opening to the light. Lance laces their fingers together, warmth against warmth, and a smile tilts Keith’s lips upward. In his peripheral vision, Lance is smiling back. The softness around his mouth and eyes is reserved especially for Keith.

Ahead of them, the view unfolds.

The star’s beams inch over the curve of the planet, slowly at first, then bursting with color as they clear the edge. At the very bottom, the light glows soft blue, like the hottest part of a candle flame. As the corona rises, it deepens into a spectacular orange-red, the color of fire and passion and a brand new dawn.

Keith holds Lance’s hand tightly in his. Together, they watch day break over the horizon of a distant world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. so here we finally are. if you're reading this: thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic got way bigger than it was supposed to be and took far too long to write. those of you who have read it and enjoyed it are what made it all worth it for me. your comments and messages have kept me afloat. this is an odd bird of a fic and certainly not everyone's cup of tea, so if you gave it a chance and stuck with it, i appreciate it more than you could possibly know.
> 
> i wrote this fic to practice creating a novel-length piece with something resembling a plot. however, what you guys have read is more or less a first draft, so it's obviously going to be flawed. i'm not going to go back and change anything, but if you've noticed any holes, things that felt too handwavey, didn't make sense, or just general weirdness, don't hesitate to point it out -- constructive criticism will help me grow as a writer and i'll gratefully receive it, so long as it's worded politely.
> 
>  **of course, your comments and messages will continue to rejuvenate me until the end of time. i would LOVE to know what you thought!**
> 
> i don't intend to stop writing, so you can subscribe to me as a user or see what i'm up to over on my [tumblr](http://lvtvr.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> thanks for coming on this ride with me. see you, space cowboy <3


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